The well in the desert is dry, dear.
The well has gone bone dry.
I try – I try – I try –
But the desert by the well is dry, dear.
My well has come up dry, dear.
It’s dry as a preacher’s till.
My quill – my quill – my quill –
The plow’s too dead to till, dear.
The sea in my heart is dry, dear.
My heart is dry and bare.
Beware – beware – beware –
The writer’s well is bare, dear.
The well of my words is dry dear,
The well is deadly dry.
I die – I die – I die –
The veins in me are dry, dear.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
lyrical and wonderful!