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!