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Since the era of a time gone I have been writing
Not what comes from the spirit of my heart,
Nor the renditions of my soul,
But the joyous creativity of my pen
But time has come to set a flame burning
To let its dancing light shine in the shadows
For a new inspiration now grips my world
In the words of songs so much as forgotten
What is it that lies so deep in your heart,
That you find it hard to surface it unto your mind,
Where from the voice shall you clothe your silent words
And give the world a token excess of what it deserves?
For so many lies I have lived to tell,
For so many adventures I have lived to cover,
Hope is but sometimes the fame of illusion
When the true sense of meaning is deleted from it
I pen this not inspire you to a page of love
But just to wax and wane in my forgotten talent
To which I entwine, like a river's flow, my pen to paper, words then must come
In this joyous creativity some latent talent grows
It doesn't matter, my dear, it doesn't matter, my lyrical friends
Life is but a cycle 'to which no traveller returns'
It doesn't matter, my fans, it doesn't matter, my cynical critics
Nothing impossible, lovers of art, nothing is difficult, skeptics of art
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem