Thinking and thinking, O! What has happened?
Can’t even I write a word.
I stand as I fight myself on a field of paper.
In hand with the ever winning sword.
The days pass by and roll on.
Without fulfilling the poetic lust.
I fear seeing no soldier to fight with.
Might not my sword rust.
Myself I ask, angry with me, is she?
My life, the art of poetry.
Plead I to her, not to let the sword keep away from work.
For to keep it for ever dust free.
A reply flashed back,
Don’t ever consider yourself greater than me,
I let you g0o this time.
The next, I’ll stung you to death like a bee.
I pledged to worship the art
And found my soldiers were back at work.
They marched forward on the battlefield.
With a single beat on a parallel track.
My happiness and joy was back.
And my life back I had yield.
For the sword was in hand again at work.
And the soldiers marching forward on the battlefield.