In a last burst of creativity
words pour through fading light;
the all too familiar lines form
and fall perfectly into place.
But alas the wrong time and space
spells doom as consciousness slips
behind the veil of slumber.
Unaffected, the muse drifts away
to return some other day;
but the life of a poem vanishes
never to be back again this way.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem