What happens when you sit down to write?
Do you see an overwhelmingly blank sheet of paper that threatens to swallow you whole?
Or do you see a song begging to be sung; a bridge wishing to be built for the sole purpose of connecting mind, body and spirit; a story yet untold, a vast plain of existence yearning to be explored?
Is the paper talking to you?
Or are you talking to the paper?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem