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I write absence on the page, (the pen is dry,
Sterile of ink), borrowing a strange
Song of despair from waterless clouds.

They feed me poisonous morsels
To kill with false satisfaction, breeding cancer
To the very core of my being.

I wish to understand the essence of music
That shapes language in black and white notes
As the background to a noble journey,

Where the Word is spoken and creates
With manifold splendour all that moves
In harmony and praise.

Yes, my desire is to be the scribe
Who tells the beautiful story,
After my eyes are opened to see
The world in faith and love.

Not of my own, but given once
I ask out of my need of Him,
The Author of my life.

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