Before me lies a vacant sheet,
Blue lines traced on a snowy field,
Stretched across a silent plain,
Bereft of soul and beauty.
Thirsting in the inkless drought,
Like a heart that lingers lonely,
Where the potent voice of love is lost.
This page is cold and barren,
Yet it seeks a lover’s warmth,
To breathe a breath of life upon
Its quiet face once more,
Freeing all the willowy words,
Resting eager beneath the surface.
And when this naked tundra
Awakens to the tender touch,
Of a lover, of a poet,
It will at last begin to thaw,
As ink flows through paper veins,
And the heart suppressed in silence
Stirs beneath its glacial breast.
Words rise up, a whispered breath,
Like vapor from melting snow,
To weave a song through silent air,
While the heart throbs its timely rhythm,
Poured out in verse from poet’s pen,
Of love — the aching heart’s own muse —
And page, where soul at last finds voice.
©️2025