calls me to write
a poem
it expects something
romantic
to inspire it
the moon is waiting
and the stars are excited
but i realize
who am i to please them?
and who are they
to be pleased?
and so they all ended
disappointed
and then inside my room
i write the poetry of
my life
it did not inspire me
at all
neither did it excite me
like the way the stars and
moon dream it to be
but i guess i have
told myself
what i have never told
the world
and that is good enough
for me
if the cold night calls me
again to write poems
i shall tell it frankly
i am cold myself
and you do not need me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem