She sucked it dry and left.
I am not the first, and I am not the last.
We wither so that she may bloom
In the cruel contest for laurels.

Poetry’s beauty is in our exhaustion,
In the sleepless searches for words.
All other cares forgotten and abandoned,
We do not notice the passing of days.

You are worth that we bow to you.
You are holy, and our soul is sinful.
You know everything, from you we learn.
We dry up, and that is why you are eternal.