Lord, I bow. My poet's quill
Let fall here. The very
Instrument that you lent me
To serve. Have I done ill?
He moaned then. Spoke in a fit
Of mere jealous humour:
'Had I your words on nature
Not just its maker's wit! '
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
a very fine prayer humble in attitude. lovely prayer. tony