Look, it's finished: nothing left to be done.
How heavy feels the pen held in my hand.
Short time ago it was so light,
Lively as quicksilver:
All I had to do was follow it,
It led my hand
As one who sees a blind man leads,
As ladies guide their partners at a ball.
Stop, the work's completed,
If I struck out one word,
A hole would gape and ooze serum.
Were I to add but one,
It would stick out like an ugly wart.
A single change would jar
Like a dog barking at a concert.
What now? How can I let it go?
Each time a work is born you die a bit.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem