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.