Empty Pages

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. Rauwolfia