The blank page

It rains on the sheets of the half-opened notebook

Laying there before you, now useless,

When inspiration, in infertile tears,

pours its solitude into your heart in winter...   

From the edge of the inkwell a feather flies

And the page fills with the absence of words

That in the dry spring, in the garden of your woes,

The poet is lost and the rose withers.

It rains on this page as white as you 

And the stars of water stream on the void

Which is growing in your livid soul,

When your dream escapes and leaves you stunned. 

But still you will see, will come to you the revenge

In music of a verse, in song of a rhyme

To erase forever these moments of depression

That you once lived for a blank page.