It was you who brought
the characters to life.
Initially you thought
it was in you their strife
was given birth; that you
were the creator of it all;
that in you they’d find the clue
to their life’s every rise and fall.
But writers know creation is perverse.
What is created wants the centre stage.
The smallest image in the prose or verse
strives to overrun the margins of the page.
You who saw the first words taking shape
find yourself now unable to escape.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem