The poetic workshop turned into a land of broken thoughts
and one useless mind. Everything inside looks like a room with kids playing and
loudly shouting around. Your pen, a half written piece of paper had gone before
you have realized it’s time to safe your little world.
Almost nothing survived.
Has your hand stopped writing forever?
No, through the ashes there is a sign, your mind is still
alive.
The only thing that keeps the poet thinking is the spark of
morning shining star
