Intoxicated by the inspiration
Of his trade—
With mental powers at work,
A true poet rarely sleeps.
His mind ever churning
With powerful imagery
That produces thought,
Sound, rhythm and gesture.
He molds with metaphor,
Shapes with simile,
And paints with irony
Like some great maestro
In his toil to produce
A beautiful symphony
For himself and all who would enjoy.
Little wonder he rarely sleeps.
© 2009
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem