His final draft of poetry
Was unlike any he had penned
His heart and soul were in it
But his disquiet mind was not
The words and phrases
Made jumbled sense to him
The underlying meanings
Were hidden even to him
He tried deep breathing daily
And all he got was a headache
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Too much thinking, Too many rhymes, Can be guilty, Of poetical crimes Sometimes when we delve too much into the literary world we seem to becomes disconnected from the real one(which isn't so bad considering our world, today) . Think that is what you ment.. Could feel your dissary. S.