I sit again before the blinking page
and try again to tackle the ordeal
to sift through words I’ve borrowed, to reveal
the very little that I’ve learned with age.
Sometimes it’s hard for me to try and gauge
if meter, rhyme or rhythm are ideal
or if the anglophones will find appeal
in these poetic musings I engage.
And yet I self-impose this sweetest strife
to find the words for that which, silent, looms
behind the borrowed days of this new life
that thrives and grows despite the many dooms
that pop up every day; this is a knife
to cut through my own veil, and see what blooms.