Ideas come and go,
Slipping through my grasp,
They dance heel and toe,
Elusive as an asp.
Sometimes they'll come again
So I have one more chance
To hold tightly to them
As through my mind they dance.
Poetry's like breathing,
Because you're grasping air,
Entering and leaving,
To find there's nothing there.
Poems become prosaic
And it's truly tragic
When a poem's mosaic
Has to lose its' magic...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem