I am lost
A quill at hand
An inkpot beside me
Words out of my quill slow
My handgun is ready
I can not hear
From the flintlocks.
No one pushes the quill
My papyrus still
No one whispers to me
That fickle devil is here
Who shut words right
In my my throat
My tongue held in my mouth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Unique words speak the inner you, realistic thanks