.بسم الله الرحمن الرحيم

This is a poem about the page of poetry

Unto which a newer poem has not yet been writ.

Yet: a blank page, part of that fan-like, quick

Shuffling sound, as you take your thumb and run it through them. But time only leads us to

Here. Now.

Next: We can only look back in retrospect. But

This next part has not happened yet.

And, it’s the fact that sometimes, silence feels quite like

Some quiet form of violence. Inaction is… some waste

Of paper, and pen, and potentials, possibility.

So, won’t you speak?

Read, in the Name of your Lord.

And write back to Him: a love letter. And love without words

Is not love at all: it’s ego, it’s a poisoning demonstration of destruction: violence.

But: a poem in progress, is you. So keep going.

A declaration in motion. A series of things, which make up a

Story. Change, and continuity. Ongoing, so personally affect-able.

A breath of fresher air; courage.

And a single yellow

rose whose name, we decide, is Hope.