Weak Translation
I write like a sinking rock...
POETRY
I wish I could write.
Some say I can, but they don’t understand.
…I simply spell words with ink.
To say I write is to say the rock swims as it sinks;
That it flies free when tossed into the sea.
And perhaps I am wrong in what I’ve found.
Perhaps I’ve learned to skip stones upon swells where they neither fly nor drown.
But to be a master of one’s craft and evade the wrath that pulls me down like Orpheus’ doubt
– that is different entirely.
The words of those who truly can write must smell like rain.
They must bring about oasis shade in the heat of the day.
They must crunch old autumn leaves and smell like fresh grass clippings.
Alas, these lines, this language of mine, are little more than a translation of the thoughts in my mind.
A weak translation, in need of a transformation...
So that it is not my pen but my spirit.
So the readers can feel as I do when I write and they hear it.
I wish rocks could fly as they skip, catching air like the wings of a bird.
I wish I could write as I sit and harness this heart that yearns to be heard.
But until then, I’ll just spell words out of ink...
Hoping that one day I will write what I think.