Flowing endlessly, words tossed on pages,
Reaching farther, spelled through the ages.
Unable to be forced, rippling with tears and sweat,
Like love, nature pulls course as yet.
Letters cascade, crashing in their books,
Grabbing and squeezing, tightening hooks.
Demanding more, imposing command,
Should it, love to be as planned?
Writing these words, your book should not be forced,
Each one should be loved, each to be endorsed.
Some fairy-tale, some disaster,
But with them, be patient, don’t move faster.
Your love, your poem, your book should be felt with the heart,
Through torment of pressure, potential to be torn apart.
Let life work magic, let it take part in your works,
For in the shadows, your selfishness lurks.
Flowing endlessly, words tossed on pages,
Reaching farther, spelled through the ages.
Ripped to shreds, and finally I say amen,
Another day, another poem to start again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem