This might not be the quil.
Nor might the leaflet be.
The ink is yet to flow,
Now the angle might be poor.
The seconds due, might not be.
May be when the sun melts
Its last funeral in the bays.
But whenever be the second;
There shall still linger, the tip
Of the quil, unflown ink within.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
a very flowing ink. Very nice