In dusk dew, sitting beneath the willow,
On the empty meadow.
Staring at thick dust-covered glasses of farmhouse windows,
I spill my ink, and loose my quill,
In the sheath of hay covering the soft sweating field...
Beyond the layers of my hair and dark scalp,
There are million tissues, veins and warm blood...
And comfortably seated in its section is my still brain,
With its sharp edges cutting through my thoughts like steel blade.
I send a wordless whisper...
My happy-sad brain loudly speak in continues twitter,
That only I can hear,
But leaves its words on my black face, clear!
I feel the clement breeze sweep swiftly through the life around,
And watch the many blank white wings of my book flutter with sound,
My emotions grapple my thoughts,
Draging it fiercely through the corners of my head, like a grapnel...
No ink yet i scribble...
Words in a silent whistle...
An empty page and empty sheet,
Is what i returned with, when the sun hit my feet.
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