Writing poetry is like rubbing an old lamp.
At first all you're trying to do is get
the dust off, see what you've got a hold of and
what the lamp is made of.
Once the smoke starts to rise and the Genie
begins to appear, you sense the magic
without knowing what direction it will take you,
or the reader.
There are many theoretical discussions concerning poetry and how and why it arises.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Totally agree. How long do we have to wait for the fog to clear though?