A poem, a spark that soon goes out
Mere whisper of flame not a shout
Its glow dies when falls, bouncing about
Without oil of ink or in paper drought
Of gathered dry thoughts build your fire
Gather clean leaves, stoke it with twigs of desire
Blow into it life's breath, watch it grow higher
An offering burnt upon a writer's block pyre
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem