Sadly he bows his head and sobs in dismay,
never gazing at his star and its rumpus.
Peeking down at his works, in a disarray.
He could not, he never really found his muse.
It was June, it was May, was March, never gay.
The world is present but his heart sings the blues,
well! Though he could not control his miff like Nimo,
he tried, please go easy on his ego.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem