My pen did not run out of ink.
My computer was still working.
A stack of papers was waiting for me
On the table – I had bought it from a bookstore
And the cashier had gifted me a smile.
I was a regular customer.
My fountain pen was waiting for me.
And I ran to and fro –
From the computer to the table,
From the table to the computer-
Barely finding a solution,
Barely producing a word.
Such a terrible nightmare it was –
I spent the entire week trying and failing.
My pen produced nothing,
My heart longed to be expressive –
And I failed, failed, failed.
Everything would be fine again –
I consoled myself,
But I paid little attention to my own consolation.
The dawn broke; I could hear a bird.
It chirped sweetly, a melancholy wanderer –
When would I get to fill my papers with words again,
I wondered, wondered, wondered.