As I take my ink
And write on a paper crisp white,
I fear no word will come out right;
I don't know if it's in me to write.
I often wonder,
What is it that makes me write;
Is it the rising sun
Or the setting moon?
Is it the waves that wash the shore ever so lightly
Or the lilac colour in the evening skies?
Is it everything and all of it
Or nothing at all?