Delicate, the words flow
Freely from an open mind
Onto paper, scrawled writing
Ideas flooding the page
Though so few get life breathed into them
Though so few are continued
But the pleasure of it, for the Poet
Is matched by no other
As whole worlds are built and destroyed
By a simple placing of words
And though the Poet’s hand
May never leave its home
It becomes a grand creator
And the Poet’s dreams come alive
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem