When I fall short of inspiration, 
I begin to search within my cells for sad and shameful apathy, 
I recite until the awful phenomena puts a smile over the scowl of my face; 
but drawing inspiration from sorrows
is all tiresome to level up to momentous cheer.
When will you be expecting me to write for you a poetic piece? 
From the deepest thoughts of your mind, 
and it seems as though you do not have an answer to your seeking heart, 
draw out a line as a cue and I will follow through
with a pattern of beautifully sewn-up words.
Whenever you read from the words I have built from your cue, 
you will begin to sense a resurgence come to revive your joy -
because poetry, on earth, is the work I do best.                
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem