Terug naar gedichten
Story
Sweet, rough, tender tome of time
Offer me a story, lend me a rhyme
Something that pulls me over the written line
I witness the pen, marking the paper
Every slightest gesture becomes black ink
History in a safe, hiding cover
Judged by it’s unique looks
The return to previous pages
can’t erase the engraved
Vagaries trough numbers of ages
Won’t fill up the blank
A journey devoid of forecast
No ones’ voice will say the ink is dry
It’s to strive for progression
Into perseverance
