We don’t know how to write in it.
We just take the pages one by one,
planning each step carefully,
not to miss anything by mistake.
Seasons come, seasons go,
and we run out of ink.
Suddenly we find ourselves
trapped in the middle of the page,
autumn is here, with its dry leaves.
It’s not that we’ve lost our way,
but words have simply
We look up and the sun is shining
like it always did,
while the clouds gently roll
on the horizon.
Lord, could You spare a moment,
and come down here?