I won`t write a poem today.
No. There is no quarrel between me and my poetry.
No. Muse fountain is not drying up in my mountain.
I want to feel how much I miss a poem.
I want to feel how much a poem misses the poet.
I want to fathom the abyss in two pining hearts.
I want to be lost in deep glassy chasms in desired melancholy.
I want to watch a sad drama
and myself on the stage uttering alone a solemn monologue.
I want to see the moist eyes glistening with blissful sorrow
that hold the same tears as my sweet dreams` vases.
Then only, only then my ears could hear her epilogue
and our stormy voyage would write down the short-long travelogue.
And my not writing this poem may play a very strange prologue.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem