Writing is in itself a joy.
Yet saints and sages have long since held it in awe.
For it is Being, created by tasking the Great Void,
And is sound rung out of Profound Silence.
In a sheet of paper is contained the Infinite,
And, evolved from an inch-sized heart, an endless panorama.
The words, as they expand, become all-evocative,
The thought sill further pursued, will run the deeper,
Till flowers in full blossom exhale all-pervading fragrance,
And tender boughs, their saps running, grow to a jungle of splendor.
Bright winds spread luminous wings,
quick breezes soar from the earth,
And nimbus-like above all these, rises the glory of the literary.