I listened <br />but the wind dropped <br />its susurrations <br /> <br />I watched <br />but the mist hides <br />nothing behind her <br /> <br />I spoke but no words <br />formed to descry <br />the smoke that <br />fitted inside me <br /> <br />I halt and let <br />my permeability <br />to open its gates <br />and the water eddied <br />in crystal silence <br />and colorless cold <br /> <br />The sibilant hands <br />of heavens carefully <br />wallowed to senescence <br />and there is nothing left <br />but this proud absence <br />echoing in the hollow <br />void we created <br /> <br />My pen suffocates <br />on ink futilely, <br />I’m out of words <br />to bleed.<br /><br />Norman Santos<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-wrong-time-for-writing/
