Some poems seem to
write themselves;
I just move the pen.
Others, are like lumps
of clay;
they refuse to be molded;
they need moisture and time.
This one is like
a robin that just learned
to use its wings.
It heads west, on a
gentle breeze, into
a tangerine sky.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A beautiful poem with sterling imagery. Top Marks.