Out of Ideas

Out of Ideas After each poem I think I am out of ideas As I feel the door of my heart is closed fast And the cells of my mind are shut out tight And I would not be able to write anything any more; Then comes the rest and I start thinking again And my thinking this time moves round a question And that question is: If I can breathe that means I am alive And if I am alive that means I have a life And life is like a flute and it could never be out of tune; Or a pond could never be out of ripples Nor could an ocean be out of waves And life is no less than both of them So I just blow a bit of air or throw a little stone And a new wave of a new tune immediately breaks forth In delight I sit and compose a poem for you to sing.