I wanted to write some poetry, a song that could be sung. And yet I found that nothing but prose would come to my pen, or in this case, my typing fingers. I wanted so much to write that poem, to hear its rhythm in my mind ... but nothing came, and I am left with the prose of the night time instead of the poetry of sunshine.

So I have nothing left to do but to write my prose as poetically as possible, to let it flow in a way that I cannot otherwise do. Where have my poems fled to? Why have they left me? It is strange that they should desert me too, like everybody else. I thought they were the only ones to stay, but now they too are gone.

It is a shame, because I am left behind. I wanted so much to write a poem. I'm sorry that I couldn't. 

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