The empty wasteland filled
With half a dozen desks
I enter it with a book as small as a gun
To face the teacher as angry as a wasp
A desk approaches with mere caution
An offers me a seat of burnt wood
I sit down and the book opens causing a mighty storm
I pick up my pen and begin to write
As i write the wasteland transforms into
The scene of which I am writing
As I finish writing the play with a dozen scenes
My pens rips itself out of my hand hand and does a jig
A pair of staring eyes, looks from the darkness
Dragging me back to no mans land
A bell rips the silence apart like a ferocious lion
Bringing me down to Earth into the empty classroom
As the teacher dissapears
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem