I wonder if they went about it
with sweat-streaked cheeks
and dirty fingernails
and ink-stained fleshy bits that held muscles that could change the world.
or maybe that's just the amateurs.
The greats,
they write left-handed while snacking on cucumbers sandwiches
and sipping chamomile.
They change the world with a cup of tea.
No sweat, no dirty fingernails
and especially
no ink-stains.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
flawlessly written and so true. whereas I have to kill myself to turn out a mediocre poem