Too long in despondency I've been
Too long, dear writer I've craved indeed.
For I have but one small aching
Yet big so, ails my heart to bleed
Only in thy words, doth I succumb to enchantment.
To fumble in this maze of your writ
I seek your soul, to recoil in contentment
When in these wordy forests at last I find thee,
Yet make me linger Oh Dear writer,
In this your fantasy, my being yearns to linger!
Oh dear writer, In thine imagination I will ride
Above stormy clouds, through forked lightning,
The horse gallops pasts' predation
All fears brought to naught, yet but one thing,
In the murky past, farewells unuttered
Say my goodbyes Oh dear writer,
Past the tree of grief, the weeping willow
Past the green pool? ... yet there I circle
At last to plunge and like a dream to wake
In another or not, my fate is yours,
Yours only oh Dear writer.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem