It was here, so long ago, that I first held an empty page in small hands --

This white mirror, reflecting my soul, opaque and filling.

I wet the page with yearning, mastering the nightly hauntings.

I am stunned by the unswaying mountains, the crimson horizon,

   the weeping child, the mourning mother, the ageing soldier,
   the road that dies away in the woods -- what lived there once?

The thick fluff of petals, pushing against a boundless sky, the waves dancing prettily at the shore.

And all around, the dance of life, with love and hate and pain and joy rushing like blood in invisible silken chords,

My breath a rush of life, harsh and strong in the silence around me.

I wet the page with my yearning, reflecting,

Ending the futility of having nothing and no one.