Upon parchment there is no cursor to blink repetitively,
Taunting the author's words out of their skull
As though awaiting a response to the empty request
Of which one should reply most delicately,
Both of thought and of hands,
But hasty one may be;

Words expected like sand dripping through an hourglass
Or silk slipping through the merchant's fingers
Though strong they may hold their grasp;
And once the threads, the grains, run out
They may then begin to feel their mind;

Yet it seems that time has already
                                                              stopped.