A Dialogue Between Poetry and the Pen

A Dialogue Between Poetry and the Pen

The poem sighed, tired of the pen,

Complaining, "Why this coldness and pain?

You were always the companion of the soul and melody,

What has happened to you, O pen?

Has fatigue and sorrow taken hold of you,

Or has anger and regret overwhelmed you?

My dear, my soul, my hand, and writer of sorrow,

I grieve for you with words full of sadness.

I begged you to write a sentence, a word, or a letter that lifts the sorrow,

I say words to you that you haven’t written in ages.

Without you, I would have no poetry, no verses for time.

Does it please you for age to strike me,

Slowly, slowly I die, and pain strikes you?

The pen awakens, disturbed,

"Words of sorrow, I feel them too.

I am always here, my hand reaches for you,

I write, and the pen rejoices.

I wake without sleep,

And my eyes close in peace.

My friend, poetry, my hope,

You nourish it, and give the pen the poetry.

My vow to you is forever loyal,

I will never forget you, no matter what the pen may face.

You are the soul of the pen,

And how can it write without you?"