Laces of time lie unbroken upon sacred ground, never
trampled on, always thrown about without a second care.
Forging into deep, black nights, brought on by literary
plights, hesitantly authors write duos of many words.
Fighting relentlessly back and forth, trying to be the
first to write the world's greatest books.
Mesmerized by the talent of others, left alone to come
up with words of their own.
Jostling everything, just to have some peace and quiet,
totaling nothing, writing pages of sentences.
Talent sitting far away from the population growing
impatient with the world.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem