I
From the oceans of inspiration,
Lies the rivers I write from.
To pen them down the right I do not possess,
But when my muse stirs, I perspire to write more.
II
On God's name I lay my apologies,
Over those my pen has hurt from my bleeding lines.
Your errors my pen must have designed,
But all is a coincidence of inspiration.
III
A juice of caution I will drink,
Hoping my muse will give a toast to it.
And to my readers kindly wear your armour of patience,
Just to withstand my strokes of words seeping from my diction.
Enough not to lay rebukes over a piece of writing that spikes your vices.
For to and fro,
We are all mortals.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem