There's a fever upon me to produce
to be more productive
even prodigiously so
knowing no limit, reason, excuse;
for such sudden profuse activity.
It's like love, sick and suff'ring
from a malaise, a bug,
or virus has attacked each nerve
each sinewy fissure seems
infused with imaginary disease.
A sliding into obscurity
then a rising to reality
tides and waves crash against
what appears a body
pushing to extremity, its soul.
It's creation, destiny overcome
by its own proplulsion
exclusive and alone
struggling against time's tick
looses complete control over matter!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem