The perfect verse,
The one that would resonate,
Cannot be written.
Not by Chaucer, or you,
Not by the rood or sickle,
Not by notes or dances,
Or brush and ink,
Clay or marble,
Any substance, any tool.
But it's there, inside,
Giving us a splitting headache,
Trying to get through the crack.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem