In front of me,
A piece of paper.
It’s blank, pen on the side.
My new creation, soon to be born.
I flip the paper over.
A creation, far greater than mine.
This paper is merely a used sheet, never to be noticed.
Echoes of a fading creation, just another withered waste.
A used sheet,
Do I dare find a new one?
Or be in the shadows of the better side?
Or is it best to never create again?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem