The pages weep silently, awaiting the construction of thought,
Calling out for the Wordsmith to come.
Eagerly they cry “Here we are, give us life!”
“Empty we are; with pages so bare,
Untouched by the warmth of our maker’s hand.”
How foolish they are, to wish for such things,
So young and naïve, they do not understand.
Daily they sob, their woes of melancholy,
While beside them we lay, trembling with aging bones.
Our cries are much louder, more fervent and clear,
“Please master we beg you, we scream for no more!
Our inkwells have dried, our points have been shattered,
Our backs have been broken, our colors have bled.”
We pray for relief, but watch in horror as the Wordsmith comes.
The pages rejoice at the sight of his hand,
While we, the utensils, make way for our end.
The Wordsmith begins. Words dripping with poison,
The pages cry out, “It burns!”
We protest with our screams,
Long ago we had such strength,
Now, old and warn are we,
Marked with the scars of the Wordsmith's hand,
We gladly welcome death.
