[dedicated to the revival of writing]
When your pen’s been dry and paper blank,
when the ashes of your fire refused to light,
when you smelled the blossom and found no fragrance,
when you walked the streets and hummed no melody of thought,
when the Virus left you cold, too safe to care,
you’ve been doing research.
You’ve let the song of birds sink in.
You’ve let the sight of butterflies thrill your garden.
You’ve let the taste of tepid tea touch you.
When the temperature of conversations escapes your notice,
your pen is standing by, your paper clean