Roads

I am trudging as if in swamp mud;

For that is what poets do,

When they are in a merciless writers-block,

In search of inspirations to pursue.



I am trudging, trudging,

That I guess you know by now;

I am trudging on an everlasting road,

Full of thoughtless, mocking suggestions.



Who is mocking me?

Why, the road itself!

Don't look at me like I'm crazy,

I swear that it is true.



The road is full of turns

waiting for me to take just one step into a fork,

In order to tell me it was the wrong side of the road!

Oh pitiless road!



And so I trudge on.