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There is a book in my hand with empty pages and thoughts and life hiding in my mind and my eyes. The rain is coming down, but with the drops, rays of sunshine will soon follow.

What is the magic that hides inside the mirror? What is the sound of the tender love that it whispers as I lose my breath, not to speak but to write the words of these waking moments?

This book is always in my hand, and there are times when the lines are written in chalk, and it seems this is when every emotion of my past lives care amongst each other to have tea and crumpets, sit down a spell, and talk.

The book is in my hand; it seems it never wants to leave my grip if it falls. Would someone else take a sip of these stories that seem, even with time, to remain a mystery even to me? And I am the poet who now has become the storyteller.