all she had to do was
write about a leaf, or a bird perching
one rainy upon a grain
of wheat,
voila! she is great
just like the way Picasso uses only two lines
to draw a breast of a feeding woman
how foolish can you be
searching for the golden ant with silver wings
trying to please them
with it
all toil, suffering yourself like
a Sisyphus,
you are still nothing
trying hard, copycat
forget about it, junk them
discover the great self within you
believe, Shakespeare is
a slave.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem