These pages in wich my writing sleeps upon,
in wich I write my poetry,
covered with the ink of my heart, in wich I
delineate my transparent thoughts into black letters.
These pages, the ones that hold my memories,
the ones that I carry bound by my love for them
are bordered by the many hands that have held them,
and are stained by the many fingerprints placed on them.
These pages, no matter how lightweight they may seem,
balance the weight of readers’ glances on their lines,
and no matter how fragile they may seem,
they are made strong by the comments they drag.
These pages, for wich day and night I have sweated over,
are the ones who paint my thoughts on their canvases,
they are the ones that cry and smile with me,
and absorb my inspirations so that they don’t escape.
These pages, whose worn edges present my life,
contain my messages in them close to their hearts,
they keep my changes recorded in their binding,
and they keep me forever in curvy letters on white paper.