The muse is gone, she left in the night,
Taking my creativity with her.
Packing up my words, and the color of my thots,
Then stealing away without a sound,
Or even a note.
I sit anxiously waiting for her return,
Staring at the blank page in front of me.
Pen in hand I doodle my name on the paper,
Filling the page with little swirls and flowers,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem