I try,
But I can't write poetry with my harrowing mind,
In deep frustration and resentment l wish to die,
Whole day I endeavour,
In spite of my best effort I can't depict a single line,
It seems strange to me,
For I believe I can write poesy naturally
As and when I wish.
Being tired and exhausted,
I fall asleep,
Absolute silence reigns in my unconscious realm,
It's then refined poetry comes abundantly in my calm and pleasant domain
And I depict them with great ease and spontaneity,
What a wonderful moment it is!
I become a blithe spirit,
I wish to live long.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem