White Sheet

O snowy silence, where the ideal has fallen asleep –
Like a swan without air, without an echo,
In the moment when words are but the trembling
Of ethereal wings that have wearily dived.

The pen will not press its seal into the haze,
For every thought is a shadow, a mere reflection of a dream,
And the light that has touched the whiteness
Burns only to disappear – like grace.

My mind is a prisoner of white shores,
Where the silent abyss screams the name
Of one whom the brow has not yet created.

Is there creation there, where there is no motive –
Only the empty height of existence,
Where non-existence is the only canvas?