What shall I write,
About the day,
About the night,
Perhaps the darkness
Perhaps the light
What shall I write.
Shall we sing a newer song at last,
Or hum the same old worn out tune
That gasps for breath,
That greets the morning sun with anger and with pain.
Or shall we just stand silently alone
away from hopes and distant from the fire's warmth.
These old bones are tired
These joints crack and strain under the weigt of so many worries.
These old eyes have seen too many injustices to cry anymore.
It is best that I look away.
Let the distant dreams stay distant and the past stay buried.
My pen is silent now,
Its colors are dry and useless
Its words draw blank and soundless echoes
I must not remember it so
But let my day begin anew, and trace another line across my face.