When it is written
Unspoken words have no life beneath the blink-of-an-eye
They wither and pass like the fog on the hills, like the mist
On the Meadows; but if you silently stay, if you cling to the moment
You will hear what`s been spoken in that split of a second.
It`s neverending, truly a giant library of Babel where all are just copies
With the tiniest of mistakes, there are the true “love you’s” to the wrong person
There are the “goodbyes” that were not meant to break. The maelstrom of
Unspoken words
The immensely stratified web whose chords are tiny mistranslated transcripts
Just await to be written. You can’t be wrong when you write, this is the convention
That sometimes needs another edition of the book to be pushed on the table.
Thus I lay all my thoughts as they come, as they go, let it fly – says the voice
Let it flow. And one day, just one day, looking back I will see what was right
Not to write, but to know.
G.
