Oh pen, my pen, oh lovely pen of mine,
what felon took you from my special case?
So sad am I to lose my pen so fine
I look for you within the empty space.
Your sleek round barrel and fine golden nib
lay snugly in my hand, no ink did spill.
Such loss as this is hard for me to bear,
you are gone, where can you be hid?
Ever searching fingers reach for you still,
my beautiful pen, stolen from my care.
Oh fine extender of my hidden thought,
whose great lineage from some distant time,
such pleasure that you gave me can't be bought
when writing out some words of prose or rhyme.
Why then should some person, so lost from grace,
feel such a need to take my favourite pen,
whose action was a cruel and heartless theft
from one whom they can never face?
My father's pen was mine when I was ten,
its loss is great and leaves me so bereft.
Such is the plight of people such as me
who lose a favoured item of such worth.
The feelings of such loss we cannot see,
yet run so deep when wilful theft unearth.
Such sentiment and love we cannot change,
and who can blame the loser for their ire,
the loss is theirs to bear, and theirs alone,
something they cannot re-arrange.
Wishing to find it is their main desire,
a wish that retribution may atone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem