This Pen

On the lofty heights of distant alienation, that child sits, his beard a gray of years gone by, his eyes fixed on eternity. Love plays an endless symphony of disappointments, crashing into the void, only to return as a fragrance with the light, spreading across the blue sea, surrounded by the delicious mountains of sins, and the silence of the violin when it weeps. There is no day, only the shadow of the sun, drenched in memories, and the seagulls of light, as his blind infant calls to him, and this pen.

~ Firas Alwaily