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.