So much paper to write on...
yet nothing in my hands with which to write--
a number-- a letter-- notes that one would sing
It all appears like braille in my mind--
a vacation--
and I don't even bother to leave my room--
a suitcase, I needn't bring
Empty as a glass full of water-- empty,
because there isn't any more space in the glass
for any other thing
A world that's filled with paper,
and nothing to fill its pages
A world that's run out of time,
forgotten through the ages
And all I need is a single pen,
to write down what I know...
A symbol-- a sign-- to know it was mine--
to have all my ducks in a row
So briefly... then 'poof'! ...
To have some real proof
before, from my world, will it go
A line-- a curve... a dot-- a dash
I once made a paintbrush, from a single lash...
so subtle and fine-- a delicate line...
hardly a line at all
for most who saw it didn't really see
because the edge of the line was so small
And now I remember the reason
why I spread it thin and tall--
It's something I'll never forget,
like the sound of my father's call--
telling me that dinner was ready
while I was playing ball
And all the way from the ball field--
blocks from where I'd dwell...
I could hear his whistle like no other--
though I waited for his yell
But if I took too long to get there,
he'd prob'ly raise some hell...
'specially if he came to get me-- good ol' dad--
the human dinner bell
And the papers piled up high...
so many things to write about
before I could peacefully die
Yet without a pen, what could I do...
Instead of ink, I used a sky of blue
Instead of writing things down for myself,
I'll leave the thoughts in you
Now you may write them,
if you've a brush or a pen--
to make a record of where and when
Or you could pile up the empty pages,
and start all over--
again
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem