(to the Afrikaans poet Louis Esterhuyzen)
I wrote a verse and thought no more,
will I write, not another thought to paper put,
and I will be free from petty critics, who with words do cut,
be free from elitist poets who my work deplore,
who claim that I write faster than they can type,
that no real expertise is found in my art,
that I have sold my soul to every reader in parcel and part
that I am the stereotype
of the rubble that are trying to become something
and when I put my pen down
while my thoughts were wandering,
You reminded me that I am Your very own,
that my talent, the words I do impart,
flow freely from my heart.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem