Writing is in itself a joy,
Yet saints and sages have long since held it in awe.
For it is being, created from a void;
It is sound rung out of profound silence.
In a sheet of paper is contained the infinite,
And, evolved from an inch-sized heart, an endless panorama.
The words, as they expand, become all-evocative,
The thought, still further pursued, will run the deeper,
Till flowers in full blossom exhale all-pervading fragrance,
and tender boughs, their saps running, grow to a whole jungle
of splendor.
Bright winds spread luminous wings, quick breezes soar from
the earth, and clouds arise from the writing brushes.
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