Por Mi Amor
In the Palace of Papers a 1’000 words are written, where they go are known to none. Least of all to those who write them. Those spying, prying eyes, ignorant of the eloquence they hope to understand are in their ever blissless blunderings imprisoned, while they, themselves hope to be like that which they have “imprisoned”.
Yet words are born in the captivity of minds and are bound and confined by the limitations of text and tongues incapable of freeing them; feelings — how can such things felt, be given form in the arc and curve of confining, contrived script when they were birthed in the vastless chambers of dreams and the void of hearts hewn and honed on Haqq.
So letters are written, and letters asking for letters are written, and upon the broken backs of tongue-twisted squash are they conveyed to courts where kings are at the beck of jesters on usurped thrones, and the lyres are played, plucked by the teeth of crooked minstrels.
So inept ignorant eyes, pry and pry awaiting a day when banners are affixed and ears are gifted for that which they heard. And words scribed, while much goes unsaid and deeds are earned with a pen mightier than any sword for plundering that worth more than gold…