Here I am in my chamber
In my room full of words
Always searching for patterns that will give life to a line
My poetry is frozen though it’s beginning to melt
The solid form is changing to the liquid of thoughts written down
Sentence after sentence in a language not mine
Loss of point no direction
A jigsaw where no pieces fit
I envy the writers and the Ёюхts who know
the way to the places were poetry grow
There is no harvest if you never sow
So I beg. steal and borrow wherever I go
