My hands have stopped itching;
my pen has stopped dripping;
And my mind has stopped visiting the wonderlands.
Then I asked myself,
Is this how it will end?
With tattered manuscripts and unused inks.
With half formed images and illusions.
Is this how I will die?
Then I called to you saying
To take me to the lost world of men.
Where emotions and thoughts unites with imaginations.
Take me to that source of creativity
That I may get help
Lest my funeral comes too soon
While I still walk the face of the earth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A refined poetic imagination, Babalola. You may like to read my poem, Love And Iust. Thank you.