How strange, curious and very true
that when one's heart is overjoyed,
words are vacant, trite and few,
in lines clichéd, lost in a void.
And when one's heart is torn and breaking
poignant words flow, gently neat;
From a soul, despairing, aching,
likes note brim in a music sheet.
As I write, I pause to wince
at this quaint catastrophe;
At this miraculous coincidence
that quietly lifts to strengthen me.
I've pondered long to understand,
Poetry - Heaven's helping hand.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem