Today when I held the pen to cast a spell upon this empty sheet, I found myself getting defeated from the world that surrounds me.
With innumerable wonders around me, I find my words trembling seamlessly,
And as I look for my muse, I find myself neglecting the exceptionally aligned nature, just a dewy view.
Stars that aren’t as pleasing as before,
Prosaicness that gathers me makes my heart sore.
This mundane night isn’t as poetic as it was yesterday, just an empty soulless ray.
This ink doesn’t cast a beam, this sheet can’t make my eyes gleam.
Those swaying trees which resemble the approaching spring aren’t the cause for the poetry I bring today.
Because my shaky hands are making my pen stumble today, maybe my heart had only this much to say.