“The dust on my pen, gloomily, reminds me
That I have been failing it,
Too weak to give it time, afraid it has forgotten me
Like a winter day, at sunset, loses its heat.
I came back, stumbling with unease,
Trying to reassure myself that words don’t leave,
And, like a bird that fleas its nest,
Where the heart is, the mind will do the rest.
Pen to paper, paper to heart,
Words, like birds will fly,
Just like it was at the start,
At fifteen, searching in life, for all the reasons why…”
Ana