Of writing

The love of making sounds

On the maiden paper,

Deflowering its white anticipation:

The first crystallization becomes

Into the unsettled shade of us,

Foulmouthed into believing

We own the world, from different ends

To its very fingertips, with a tad of evil.

Our words hung beads on the muse’s string-

When one pen is singing, it sings the rest

And this realm becomes our cradle

And we pretend the silences.

Then, our disputes stand on their own

And make their peculiar demands:

More love more blood, more ink.

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