Literary Yard

Search for meaning


It rains on the sheets of the half-opened notebook
Laying there before you, now useless,
When inspiration, in infertile tears,
pours its solitude into your heart in winter…

From the edge of the inkwell a feather flies
And the page fills with the absence of words
That in the dry spring, in the garden of your woes,
The poet is lost and the rose withers.

It rains on this page as white as you
And the stars of water stream on the void
Which is growing in your livid soul,
When your dream escapes and leaves you stunned.

But still you will see, will come to you the revenge
In music of a verse, in song of a rhyme
To erase forever these moments of depression
That you once lived for a blank page.

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