The candle is lit...
And my eyes are closed...
The room is almost silent...
For the music is not playing anymore...
And the only noise is the candle chirping...
My mind is in a state of relaxation and emptiness...
As blank and empty as the paper where I want to write a poem...
My hand is holding a pen, which was given to me as a gift...
As if waiting for ideas...
But nothing comes to mind...
The pen must be really eager to let its ink spread on that paper...
For its now moving by itself...
In a rhythmical way...
As if following a symphony from the sky...
My hand only role is to just follow the pen...
This time is not the hand that commands the pen...
It is the pen that commands the hand...
I am in awe...
And don't venture to open my eyes yet...
Until the hand and the pen stop moving...
I need a few seconds...
For the curiosity and excitement are getting the best of me...
And I want to savor the moment...
I finally opened my eyes...
To see these words plastered on the paper...

"I am a magical pen...
I come from a magical and mystical land...
Where poetry is heard when it rains...
And where sonnets flow through the night...
I can create poetry...
All you have to do is hold me over a piece of paper...
And I will do the rest...
My ink will never dry...
The same way the verses on your heart and soul will never end"...

I can't think of a better gift that this magical pen...
I'm starting to believe the woman who gifted me the pen is also magical...
And perhaps comes from the same land as the pen...