The page is blank,
it screams out write!
The page...the page,
is blinding white.
Not often found,
in the dead of night,
tho' here I am...I am,
quill poised to write.

To write...to write,
ink blots on the page,
staining the white,
with it's contrasting stain.
The white...the white,
it is a heavy strain,
my quill quivers mid-flight,
as if in pain, oh the pain,
there is to write.

Penned by my hand on the 20th of Lupar, in the year 606 AF.