|
My qiull, a long to regurgitate words,
In the middle of a joyous night of December,
Her feathers, ablaze auburn and burgundy,
Forever, the snowing night longs shines.
Papers as white as scintilating snow flakes,
Waiting to be filled with Sestinas and Ghanzals;
A pot of ink yearns to color my heart with cyan joy,
I, a poet, dream to give birth to a poem.
My hand trenbles cold, a frightened wren
As I unfold my mind to absorb ideas to write.
Eyeing the drifting clouds, the comets annd the fireflies,
I realize a Triolet is lurking deep inside my tiny universe,
Trying to brake its embryonic sac.
|
