Everything that's artistic in the world
calls the ink well of your old fountain pen
Let your hands play sonatas
on Pianofortes fashioned out of Language.
Let everything that's weighing you down
melt away like ice bergs grazed by
the Sun's fingertips.
Your words, your poems carry destinies
that are bigger than yours;
They were born
to descend like a thousand dawns;
They were born to
colour the darkness of a thousand skies
with shades of gold
and shades of red.
Let your poems fulfill their destinies.
Don't stop them.