I’ve read these empty pages long
In search of hidden dreams,
As treasure hunters pan for gold
In empty water streams.
These lines where letters have not tread
These starless, moonless skies,
Must surely hold some secret, seen,
By only writers eyes.
What depth is there below this sheet?
What colour when it’s clear?
What song within this silent page
That only some can hear?
I’ve watched this empty world of white
Where yet no name is signed,
A world of undiscovered words
That sometimes I can find.
Where faces smile behind a glass
Through which per chance I see,
And voices speak out of that realm
Yet speak selectively.
A world where those who enter spread
Their mighty wings of thought,
And soar the breezes of ideas
From which their tales are wrought.
But though that sphere is ever vast
And though I’ve walked its lands,
So often it’s beyond the reach
Of mortal writer’s hands.
I stand before an empty page,
This door that will return,
And search once more to find the lock
In which my pen will turn.