Sonnet 1

Accursed be this task I do write,
soon rather I’d be to up in flight.

For the merit of translation is lost on me,
as I try to negotiate between mind and pen,
swatting at ideas in a style most arbitrary,
hopelessly lost among the thoughts within.

So what, I wonder, shall I choose to cite?
Should I not go gently into that good night?

Or perhaps, before me, the answer stands,
for, behold, how the lines do fill,
like rising tides in ocean lands
not of focused thought, but of loose-lit will.

And so, it seems, my mind’s current fight,
has finally been lost in a writer’s hindsight.

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