If we had to say what writing is, we would define it essentially as an act of courage. - Cynthia Ozick
* * *
Irreparably white the page. Long hours
Spent vainly at a desk. Of warmth and Nice
Smell the mimosa's tiny, yellow flowers.
Caught by the moon's white ray, a large bird flies.
It's bedtime, and my long hair plaiting tightly -
As though it mattered!- out the window I,
No longer sad, my heart a little lighter,
Stare at the sea, the sandy slopes, the sky.
What power has he, one who will refrain
From asking for so much as tenderness!
I cannot lift my eyelids when my name
He speaks, and am all pain and weariness.