Ink

Each day is a surrendering

To the forces both great and humble

Often it is to a force that stays beyond

And always within, to which I am a part

At times to the paper vendor who changes

The familiar with the unfamiliar brands

To the milk man who refuses to open his booth

To the maid servant who develops fancy illnesses

To the waste collector who disappears

Like a cloud from a summer sky.

I don’t threaten people with words

I don’t shake the seats of familial bonds

I don’t hurt people with absence of presence

I don’t think about things that don’t think about me

I just think about those who has stabbed me

Both from front and from behind

And wonder about that particular moment

Before they strike and about their feelings.

Stab as much as you can

You will spill only ink from my heart.