The pen will not move.
It sits nestled,
Motionless.
I try to move it,
Make words,
But none spring to the page.
And all is quiet.
How can you describe the ocean with only a biro’s worth of ink?
How could I tell you everything?
The thought moves like the tides,
Back and forth,
Day and night,
And how it makes me long for the shore,
The cooling sand,
A million grains of mountain and hard places,
The sea wipes them up and down.
And the rustling of the waves is a pleasant music.
On nights such as this
How could anyone say everything about the sunset on the ocean?
Beauty when it is true cannot be embellished with description,
And like the sea,
You are beautiful.
Truly,
Completely,
All disarmingly beautiful.
Like the sea you have dark,
you have storms,
No one, not even you, can hide that,
But there is always light.
There is always hope.
And I see it all in you.
And with these thoughts
I make the pen move,
Hoping you might one day hear it.
And the rustling of the paper is a pleasant music.
