You can lead a horse to water,
but you cannot make it drink.
I lead my pen to paper,
but it refuses to write.
My pen is not empty,
but I feel my imagination is
and I wonder if
I have run out of steam.
The world is filled with wondrous things
that my minded refuses to think about.
Once upon a time
my imagination gushed from my pen,
now it’s only a trickle
and only now and then.
I sit here at my desk
and look out the window
at the wind blowing the trees.
Maybe if I stood outside
it might blow away
the cobwebs in my mind.
(10 August 2011)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem