The pen hits paper with a clean-cut sound,
And ink spills out, the words unbound,
A poem taking shape before your eyes,
Its form like magic in disguise.
You pour your heart out in each line,
With every word that you refine,
You spend hours perfecting your craft,
Until every syllable's sound is rehashed.
But as the ink dries on the page,
You wonder if anyone will engage,
Will they see your art for what it's worth?
Or ignore it like just another verse?
Doubts and fears may gnaw at your soul…
But don't let them take control,
For there's a bright hope that lies ahead;
A glint of light in the darkness, instead.
For when your poem takes flight,
It could spark a reader's inner light,
And like a flame that spreads to life,
Your words will bring joy in the midst of strife.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem