and the deeds that are not revealed yet,
I am an ink without pen;
I am a pen without ink,
both without paper.
I am all,
I am neither;
I do not know
anything other than things bestowed upon.
By the Nun
and whatever the pens cover,
whatever the pens reveal

Ink heals,
Pen befriends.
Paper mirrors,
Words are interlocutor.
They are lost indeed
when you have no mirroring ear,
when the mirror is gone,
the paper torn;
to hear
makes the pen cry, and
only then ink is revealed.

O, Beloved Friend
Fill my hands with the ink
of your inspiring winds.
Let my eyes, right and left, see
none,
All You,
thus all.
Did you hear what happened?
Did you know how it happened?
Of course you do.
But I want to tell
because this is what you do:
you know, but again, the pleasure
is to listen.
And on my part
it is to tell.
I want to forget my forehead on the soil that stands before You, welcoming,
I want to forget nothing.
But I only become Zero
In that moment.
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