Words on the page give no immortality,
they are flashes for an hour memory wiped.
we are what we write or write what we are,
the edges blurred lines where reality starts.
writing for fortune's fickle fame that dark muse
keeper of hubris and false truths
waiting for quixotic glory's a childish game
and words on the page give no immortality.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem