This pen

 On the distant heights of exile, that child sits. His beard is the ash of years, and his eyes gaze into eternity. Love plays out in endless disappointments, colliding with nothingness, only to return as a scent of light spreading over the blue sea. Around him, the mountains of delicious sins rise, and the silence of a weeping violin echoes. There is no daylight except for the shadow of the sun, drenched in memories. The seagulls of light circle above, and his blind infant child calls to him. And this pen