Genius is a writer,
Amid plentiful others,
Digests the precious texts much,
Before letting the pen kiss the paper.
He emulates life as it appears,
As does the painter on a square-world,
The third eye of his starts flying like a bird,
Getting wings at times.
Some write for a living in entirety,
To slap on poverty's face,
Engaged a few are in the endless race,
Concentrating on the numbers, stampeding the quality.
Like Browning's Grammarian, I prefer him,
Who shapes all his thoughts to perfection,
For his own gratification,
Sticking firmly to humanity, to his dream.
Leaving an indelible mark prior to the decisive farewell,
Is what he ever cherishes,
Entreating God so that the dream never perishes,
How great'll it be when a soul'll tell the writer's tale!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem