On a night when stars weep their ancient light

On a night when stars weep their ancient light, I lose myself in the whispers of paper, in the song of ink, Like a river of memories winding through the hills of the heart, And I wonder if writing heals something within me. Traumas are a veil of mist dispersing at dawn, Leaving only shadows dancing on white pages, Transformed into fine lines of art that people applaud, Yet in the applause, I hear the muted echo of my suffering. My fingers touch the lines, feeling the thickness of life, While my tongue presses against my teeth, reciting slowly. Sadness and pain pierce like thorns into flesh, They burn, transforming into ashes that settle on the soul. Does writing heal any wounded corner of mine? And if so, how much can it soothe my pain? How much of suffering becomes a rainbow on paper, And how much ink turns into living scars? In this continuous flow of my consciousness, Metaphors are born from an open wound, I seek answers in the echo of deep silence, As letters are laid like stars on the sky of the soul.