At late hour,
Deep in the dark of the night,
I sit a lone vigil
No company save one dim light.
Tis the time
I like best I find,
No one to disturb
The unweaving processes of the mind.
Mundane needs and wants
Are fast asleep
And insight emerges
From the unconscious deep;
It is then
When I pick up my pen.
Words start crystallizing
Into strands
And ink flows
As the brain demands.
Retrieving a thought,
Sculpting a phrase,
Trying to carve the path
That will solve the cerebral maze;
Splicing away
The redundant to create,
Bringing concepts and ideas
From the emotional state,
And pain and love
Is left behind;
A firm written testament
To a memory of the mind.
(1987)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem