My pen is cold and so are my hands.
Millions of ideas are miles away from me and all I want to do is stay still.
Maybe, just maybe, that's all it needs.
I suffer to pen down ideas and that's fine.
My body and my mind faints.
Maybe I've worked myself too much, Ideas have betrayed me, or maybe I've betrayed them and now they seek for comfort afar, in the home of men and women of great penmanship.
The scorching sun has burned down my loot of knowledge and now I rest on the mercies of a penny left.
Sing me a song, let me learn
Give me tambourine, let me play
In the memory of the heart is the spirit awakened
Let the wind blow and sieve away the dust
In the home of knowledge, let me see
Just maybe scrolls of writers may once again embrace me
