The poet had not written,
In his prolific and glorious time of imagination
He had neglected his talent,
When he woke up,
He found he had lost his previous touch and brilliance,
As a deep rust had already developed in his superior poetic talent.
He tried hard to wipe out the rust and regain his skill,
But in vain,
It's too late,
He had lost his flavour forever,
The wretched poet cried in deep pain and frustration.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem