I think, not to think.
Scares in silent night. The candle
fails to burn. Do you ignite the muse?
Why the inquiry of pain
grows dim to discover the cause of threat.
The will to write needs a new language.
In the water a thought
dies. I remember T S Eliot. The waste
land devours the beauty of roses and butterflies.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem