The pencil is always calling me;
the words are always forming like a storm;
they push me on to that blank safety
where I can always jump cry be happy and morn;
and all I need is ink paper words
to patch my broken wings
and strive again for the sun
with a little poetry
that, somehow, reforms my soul.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
great poem..................................