If solitude in the blazing sun I earn,

and all I have is writing, I’d burn.

Because from three in the morning to the afternoon

I could bleed the juice of love or war,

concentrated thought, and pretty soon

I’d find the thing I was searching for.

If pain’s my butler and exhaustion maid,

for all the spare time I would trade

my money, my strength, even my life

for the continued use of a creative mind.

I’m stuck in silence, so all I can do

to keep my sanity is marry the mind.

If barren sands or shriveled reef,

or forest full of nature’s boon

are all I see, and will always be;

I’m sure they’ll be my friends in time.

In the night before my lonely fire,

the pen and paper can record my rhyme.

A me without language is a dammed-up stream.

But with nothing else I could always survive.

For with every drop of ink I’d meanly dive

into the world of words and silver dreams.