The blank page beckons,
Begs,
For an idea, a phrase,
Expanded,
The form art.
The hand hovers,
Hesitantly, pencil held tight,
Above the paper,
Deciding, selecting,
A multitude of topics,
A treasure trove of vocabulary.
Slowly, uncertainly,
A thought forms.
The thought, the idea,
Of no topic but one,
One of writing, a crafting of words.
The thought expands,
Progressive, collective,
A gathering, a compilation,
Forming words, joining phrases,
A harmony of aspects,
A chord, a picture.
From a blank, empty landscape,
A world is created.
A scene, an image,
A picture.
Thus, the fun of writing,
Where worlds are formed,
From emptiness,
From a formless void,
To a brand new world.
Finished,
The hand stops,
And the person sees.
Proud of his creation,
A poem,
Of writing a poem.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
So wonderful.... So different n intelligent.... Really liked this! :)