By Ashok Silwal
She is sitting at her desk,
The back a little bent,
The eyes look vaguely in the front wall.
The pen in hand , ready to fill the blank sheet;
She is old fashioned:
She loves the smell of paper,
The muffled music of the ball-point running…
Around, the others are not understanding;
They look at her, perplexed,
“She is doing nothing” they think,
With a bit of contempt, “She is wasting time”.
Instead, she is working hard inside.
Writing is invisible at the moment.
But.. thoughts and feelings are getting entangled,
Kneading observing, thinking, remembering,
Mixing choosing, dreaming, imagining.
She needs her melodious silence inside,
Her friendly space where the spark will explode and shine
For the letters on the wall
To turn into words, sentences, stories.
Inspiration is a lightning…
She will try to invent and create: tales, narrations, novels, poetry,
That readers will love she hopes,
Where they can find themselves,
Where they can cry and laugh,
Where they can flee and dream,
In dozens of new possible lives.
Amazing writing – reading and reading – writing,
In this deep and unsuspected connection
That makes her immensely fulfilled and happy.