I write my heart still, life mocks love’s toil-
(perhaps this ground was hardened long ago)
these seeds calloused dreams on fallow soil.
There was a time I wrote in spite of toll,
breathing hope into my waking dreams and
still, life mocked love- made my writing, toil.
I penned homage, sonnet, free verse and ode
hoping life would grow where none had, before;
dreams- untended- died in fallow soil.
Should I surrender, then, as love’s foil?
Nay! For what I offer is my heart! Still,
life may mock and make my writing toil,
Yet will I write and hope and pen my soul
(there is no turning back from what I am) ,
sowing calloused dreams in fallow soil,
Ever hoping, ever dreaming, ever
honing my craft- never learning regret…
I write my heart- though life mock love’s toil-
never seeding dreams in fallow soil.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem