The Talent
He often wonders where it comes from this need to tell stories;
there is nothing in his upbringing or schooling
to give a hint, he can hardly write it is a struggle to find
the grammatically right word.
He thinks of water trickling up from the ground running
along the stony earth on a mountainside, falling on a lemon tree,
beautifully yellow fruit, not for the roses.
Sometimes the well dries, little rain has fallen, the groundwater
is hidden in a deep cave and he accepts that,
the world changes, but he has always got the almond tree
while waiting for the sound of trickling water.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem