Writers hand, paralyzed
to the revelations of the soul
to the magnificence of the vision
moment and it stops
forgetting how to express
what it sees and how
How to tell the tale,
of counting endless stars in the dark
so many sparkle, twinkle
vision itself
with everlasting stories
of how it could be
No words can be spoken
in its true picture
no words can come close
to a vision so true and pure
so the writers hand sits paralyzed
for many moments to come
as the soul speaks
of its discoveries
up above
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem