Poetry is such an undefined thing.
It has no beginning and certainly no end.
One may try to write without the muse,
and I hear it has been done,
but how hard it is when the pen and paper run?
To write a better work that shines as sweat in setting sun,
it might be good to fetter words one and every one.
Grab a phrase from a line reported in the news,
and catch an idea that has been tossed by the muse.
Then mix with pleanty of different views,
and let simmer for a spell.
At least if no good work becomes,
you'll have an alternate prize,
some stew for lunch and even more,
a practiced work of art no less,
and a symbol of your tries!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem