When you are a writer, my friend
There’s no alternative for you.
For everything has a meaning
You know what you have to do.
You have to write it down
A significant part of your time
Your life is often interrupted
As suitable words come to mind.
A million phrases pass through
To punctuate your thoughts
Your mind constantly wanders
And reality is sometimes lost
There are voices in your head
As characters want to be created
You must not ramble on though
For writing should be understated.
A poet’s words are pure and true
She must write what is in her heart
It comes out in little spurts sometimes
As she chooses precious words to start.
So you see, although it’s a gift
At the same time I suppose it’s a curse
Nevertheless it’s who we are inside
Without doubt it could be worse!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
My friend this is the poet's philosophical question. Sometimes I wonder. Interesting thought. Thanks.