Folded was then a single piece,
Folded to blend with the pile,
How many words she ought to write,
Are but words trying to express,
To express the single promise,
Who told her where she was,
Who told her the fate she knew,
Her life on a piece of paper,
All creased but folded away,
Her words eating her out alive,
Watches those verbs come to life,
Those nouns she describes fade,
Her breath on a single stroke of pen.
My life on a single piece of paper,
Is all but creased but folds my heart,
Who hears her call out my name,
Who writes her words once I knew,
Here I travel through the words,
That I shall sigh my verbs away,
She wrote to me a single line,
Ink that droops through my soul,
Is but as soul creased as mine,
Who shall burn is but mine and burn,
Ere the final stroke is also mine,
I will suffer the last and fold,
The white of my paper is but light,
The light of my life is only two-fold.
You seek the world ahead to see,
Who sought the riches of the stars,
As bright are they and so, so white;
As white my paper, as dark my pen,
Bluntly writes the tenderness within,
Is only you who shows the way within,
You brought Nature’s door at mine,
Whose wind carried it away from me,
Is but a paper as soiled as mine,
Forgotten words once I said before,
Your truth finally is come to me,
All you ever wanted was to write,
To write a single word of pleasure.