Sometimes the words I write seem not my choice
But feel to fall, full-fashioned, from my pen.
What I should say, if I could have my voice,
Is dull as dross, not eloquent like them,
For various verses from the ether fly
To blossom bright upon the empty page
Like glittering stardust crossing cosmic sky
Which started out from faint, far-distant age
To voyage through eternities of time
To land, a stranger, on this alien earth
To make me rediscover each lost line
And cause subconscious thoughts to spring to birth,
But, surely, all of this is quite absurd
Since only I’m the one who penned each word?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem