This plain white canvas,
has a story to leave,
letters uniformly formed,
read these words that the pen bleeds.
Fresh smells of ink,
you're just cringing for more,
each line that is left blank,
a dream of a quest that is set out for.
These unwritten dreams,
are fantasies to be unknown,
something people would never believe,
These lines I leave you; you can write on your own.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Wow, this is exquisite; I'm writing as fast as I can (smile) .