Just as the lover finds, who only
loves if loved, the truth of love
is unconditional.
Just as the sculptor, who can dream
the form inside the marble block,
will come to know the chiselled space
within the form.
Just as the painter, who has used the life
to copy life, will ultimately live
in pure white canvasses.
So will the poet learn to sing
his songs in silence,
ceasing to insert his words
between desired and known.
I once incurred the wrath of a writer friend for saying that what I wanted to achieve by writing was to reach a point where it was no longer necessary to pick up a pen. He saw it as treachery; I should have made him read this.
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