The pen in his hand,

the blank page before his eyes,

the poet sits in his chamber,

but the words do not come.

Many days and weeks already,

he searches for the verses,

but he can't find them,

and fears that it will stay that way forever.

Every day gives new ideas,

in the evening he wants to write,

but the words evade him,

the page remains empty.

Desperation seizes him,

so many ideas,

so much inspiration,

but no sentence is created.

Doubts beset him,

Is he suitable as a poet?

If the words don't come,

how will he write?

He is close to giving up,

wants to throw away the pen,

tear up the paper,

but then he stops.

He puts all the doubts into verse,

writes what ails him,

puts his distress into words,

and then it is done.

He puts the pen down,

looks at the lines,

in need, he had sought words,

and the words had come.