Everytime,
Yes, everytime
I pour out a poem,
I think I've finally
Brought one home.
But then it languishes
In the cloud;
Suddenly,
Yes, suddenly,
I'm not so proud.
No thunderous applause
Makes it rain,
My paltry poem
Is blown away.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I love the imagery of the fleeting nature of thought in writing. However, the upside is that eventually the rainy days come and pour out buckets of ideas, inspiration and words that keeps us for those future droughts