what does one do with writer's block
we must write what we know
but I have only morbid thoughts
I cannot tend to those desiring flowers
this is the dry and lifeless summer
living things seek shade and wait for rain
the poet feels the breath of death lurking
and nothing seems to lift his fatal mood
his notebook then must take a darker tone
the ominous foreboding of the final flourish
the fleuron below his signature
is his terminal gesture to the spring
poetry is only written for tomorrow
although for you death is a shimmering mirage
when it finally calls to you
then you may understand
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem