On the paper the first dot It doesn’t know, cannot, It really has no inkling, What would become of your thought The shape of theme and plot Sentiments the pouring words would bring! It has no chance to know The course the stream would flow There’s no way it can foretell, The route your thoughts would take The many make and remake How the words would finally gel! It finds it deep mystery The complex tapestry Of the strings the words form, It can never really guess What brews in inner recess Sunshine or roaring thunderstorm! On the paper the first dot It doesn’t know, cannot, Your mind’s secret treasure, It has no way to know From here where you would go The journey’s anguish and pleasure!