I look east, west, north and south;
From where can my help come?
What does my heart seek before the ink?
The thoughts of periods, after the commas that I must not neglect?
The thoughts of respect to the topic, that I may not deflect?
They bore me to death
If I could bargain time with you my ticking friend,
Would you save me your sounding chimes?
And tears ever flow off my waiting pen,
I can write off these waiting cries
Truly, from where can my help come?
How do I spend this golden glare?
Stare? And mourn a rising sun?
How high the price to write up joy
I pick up my pen
From where does my agony come?
‘A Writer’s Motivation’