The white sheet of paper, harsh mirror
gives you back only what you were.
The white sheet of paper speaks with your voice,
your own voice
not the one you like to have;
your music is the life
Perhaps you can regain it, if you want
if you focus on this insignificant thing
that throws you back
to where you started.
You travelled, you saw many moons, many suns
you touched dead and alive,
you felt the young man’s pain
and the moan of the woman
the bitterness of the boy—
everything you’ve felt falls into nothing
if you don’t rely on this void.
Perhaps you’ll find there what you thought was lost;
the stamina of youth, the justified waste of age.
Your life is everything you gave
this void is what you gave
the white sheet of paper.