If only I could speak as good as I write,
With words that flow like ink at night.
Where pauses breathe, and thoughts take flight,
No stumble or stutter, no fear in sight.
In whispers bold, I'd shape the air,
With eloquence soft, beyond compare.
But in the silence of my hand's inked sprawl,
I find the voice that speaks it all.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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