What’s written can’t be unwritten.

I trample the word with my pen

as if darkness is absence.

Some words live in the paper,

in the head and the heart,

and the pen merely discovers them.

The way an angler finds a fish

from within the depth of ripples

but is not its father. 

Yes, father is the word

which comes out on paper

again, against my wish.

He is the one who had taught me

the art of holding the pen

in the filaments of my fingers.

My pen brims with his ink.

Even when I trample the word,

it rises again in another place

and merges with the me in me.