creep through the small door
the large door
towards the sleeping poet
large on the small bed.
Poetry is something
you say
to take for yourself
not to steal
but i do not listen
i go closer closer
so many bells in the background
i walk to his side.
Poetry abounds in his head
i snatch an idea
bells ringing
and run
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I'm sorry about the title, but the rules...