We are not scribes
we only arrange the letters
lighten the mind
we dress our pain with words
and cover our pain
~poetry becomes a balm on the high side of our mind~ ~And a love spreads inside us
Someone creates the color of our feeling on his face
Our pain rises as a fragrance
And someone feels this fragrance
Smiles
He feels this pain as his own. .
Then he also picks up the pen
The word is added and the ointment is prepared.
©shyboy
S