My pen did not run out of ink.

My computer was still working.

A stack of papers was waiting for me

On the table – I had bought it from a bookstore

And the cashier had gifted me a smile.

I was a regular customer.

My fountain pen was waiting for me.

And I ran to and fro –

From the computer to the table,

From the table to the computer-

Barely finding a solution,

Barely producing a word.

Such a terrible nightmare it was –

I spent the entire week trying and failing.

My pen produced nothing,

My heart longed to be expressive –

And I failed, failed, failed.

Everything would be fine again –

I consoled myself,

But I paid little attention to my own consolation.

The dawn broke; I could hear a bird.

It chirped sweetly, a melancholy wanderer –

When would I get to fill my papers with words again,

I wondered, wondered, wondered.