There is nothing left to write.
The words on the page lie polished and perfected.
The ink - locked into the paper;
A contented prisoner -
Dries in the bright sunlight.
The sprawling scrawl across the page
Is the writer’s soul: laid bare as
A newborn; a rosy thorn
Drawing passionate blood
From its triumphant creator.
The words cease to flow. The black
Night – the end of the light - encompassing all.
And the reader shall know;
It shall course through his veins and he shall ache.
For he knows in his broken heart that there is nothing left to write.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Then let me write about nothing since there is nothing left to write... Very engaging my friend!