They came for the feast of phrases,
gathered ‘round the wordless flame.
Empty cups clinked, unsated,
as the poet shrugged—his muse unspoken.
"There's no story here, " he muttered,
his mind a drought-struck desert.
And so they sat, grasping shadows,
a poem promised but never served.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem