It was hours, days, months that flew by
Not a single dew of poetry-ridden madness
rushed through my glad tank.
It was like a parchment waiting,
For insertion of a witty word to fuel the rest.
The absence of such discretion
Intrigues the spaces in my mind.
Oh, was “inspiration†the answer?
If so, let’s rephrase the question.
With various cross-marks and indigestive scratches
I unfold dysfunction, not art.
It is my desire to rid of this thirst,
To glide with this song…
But it remains a melody with no words…
Like comfort in oblivious suffocation
Of love and its vomit.
In silence I seek to trace my way
back to my imaginative disorder.
I agree with a hesitant stomach,
That with love and its crud components
Anyone is made a poet.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem