Drinking from the Source

This verse does not belong to me
My hands are still, my tongue is dumb.
Not composition, memory.

I tried to fashion poetry,
My self-claimed efforts, poorly done
This verse does not belong to me.

"I have no gift. It's just not me."
"I've tried to write, but it won't come."
Not composition, memory.

The wind blows through the sighing tree,
The surf makes silent rocks a drum.
These voices don't belong to me.

They say it's creativity.
It's not from here. Where is it from?
Not "making up", but memory.

Remembrance is the missing key.
This poetry from elsewhere comes.
These verses don't belong to me
They're written down from memory.