Paper Poem by Vera Sidhwa

The paper sat blank on it's desk,
Filled with other white paper next to it.
They all awaited to be written on.
To display some meaning to ponder on.


But till now they just sat at this desk,
For the pen to move quickly upon them.
For the blank to be turned into black,
The lack of meaning of blank.


Turned into a page of science, plots of novels,
Writing about architectures and music,
About inventors' lives and artist's too,
But try as they might, the papers lay blank.


So their hopes sank,
They gave up, in lying heaps of blank,
On their writer's table.
For the writer's mind was also forlorn.


You see the writer had lost his Muse,
His hand couldn't hold that pen upright.
That pen couldn't on those papers write.



So now the papers, the pen and the writers struggled.
The writer could not put one word out.
That was absurd,
Because the paper and the pen had waited so long.


But suddenly, one thought struck the writer's mind,
The words came out in any old kind,
Because those words strung themselves out,
Scribbling stories on those papers spread out.


The writer's hand so deftly moved,
Across not one paper, not two papers,
But all lying on his table.
He himself didn't know that he was able,
To fill the yearning blank papers lying on his table.