But my ink had dried and hardened.
Invisible words make no poem.
Maybe I have forgotten how to listen,
To listen to the words which become ink.
Maybe I’ve just become a little deaf.
Why don’t I hear the harp,
That plays in Guthema’s heart.
It is always there, you say.
Like the music in an elevator.
Empty or full,
It’s always there, you say.
Maybe I just need to understand,
That there are no two harps,
That there are no two hearts,