A serious amount of time has passed since a verse had come to mind,
a mental blockage is all I have, and not a word seemed to rhyme.
No words of wisdom or anecdotes, the supply had completely gone,
I was starved of thoughts or ideas, not an inkling, nothing, none.
My source of inspiration had stopped for some strange reason,
as though there was a mandatory break in the poetry season.
I racked my brain and tried, but nothing would come together.
Not even after a walk and a positive change in the weather.
Three hours after midnight, I woke up and had to pick up a pen.
For some strange reason I had the urge to begin writing again.
The cause of the dilemma, I don't know, and perhaps I never will.
Inspiration suddenly comes and then vanishes like a swallowed pill.
But I'm truly thankful when words and lines do come to me.
It is as though they are sent as a gift, telepathically.
It doesn't matter if the thought arrives and it's not very good,
or if it's humourless or silly, or whether it can be understood.
As long as, it relays that second or moment's inspirational thought,
the instinctive, instructive message that is given and not bought.
It concerns me not if it is only a glimpse, or just a few words long,
or whether it has lines strung together, be they right or wrong.
When one or two words or sentences are relayed to my mind,
I just have-to write them down, no matter the place, or time.
If I do not capture that inspirational thought on paper right away,
they become lost forever in obscurity, whether it be night or day.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem