Verse,
just woven
from words
is grape juice,
not wine.
It must ferment
and age
in the dark cellars
of the mind;
for a while
forgotten.
Later,
perhaps tasted
and shaken in the sun
to shuffle
or delete words,
or perchance
add
a forgotten word.
Often
it is simply left
on its own
until someday
it issues
the desired effect
on the mind.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Lovely writing! I also am one of those whom it takes days and weeks for me to get it down and get it right. At least to my satisfaction. Nicely done!