I sit alone at my writing desk with paper and quill,
Yet I have no inspiration, no artist's thrill.
My muse is like the fickle tide,
Unwilling to stand constantly at my side.
I receive pulses of inspiration that fade as soon as they come.
I sigh, knowing I will not finish a piece when the day is done.
I grip my quill tightly and will my muse to stay,
But that only drives it away.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem