Oh, to be a poet,
Thinking all the time,
Of what is wrong,
With everything,
And what should really rhyme,
Trying to make sense of things,
Trying to explore,
The imprisoned fossils,
Found in amber rings,
That spell Forevermore.
You delight and inspire me, Sandra. Poetry, the freedom to express that which envelopes the writer. Does it make sense? Perhaps only to the poet, but If it reaches just one other mind.... I see that you and I are together above Shakespeare in the quick links: -) Smile my friend
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
That is the tragedy of being a poet.we are too sentimental and emotional. Thank God we can at least share our thoughts through poetry.Thanks for sharing