void

I don't think I ever stopped writing,

I just think poetry stopped visiting me.

I think it must have found someone better,

Who can grasp words like no one else,

Who can express emotions no one felt.

I think poetry forgot my home.

I think I no longer long for its visit.

I think nothing much anymore—

I feel nothing more,

More than the name the tip of my tongue holds,

But dares never call.

I think I feel exasperated,

Trying to write something I don't know.

Bonds of yesterday have gone,

Like mist in the morning.

I have been sipping tea every afternoon.

Poetry has left my lanes.

I have nothing more to conclude.

I have lived a life of fun.

Now, when the time comes,

I must bid goodbye to those who are gone.

This is the only lesson of life I must learn.

This is the night I realized,

When my heart noticed this silence howling for too long.

There are no words on the sheets—

None in my heart, none in my head.

Poetry must have left my home,

And all my diaries, one evening.

So I sit with no thoughts,

And feel delighted by my presence.

The silence of the town befriended the silence within me.

I'm no longer terrified,

Because silence has its own muse.

I rejoice, I embrace,

Like it's the last day on earth.