From the branches of the trees, it fell,
like leaves on a fall afternoon,
landing on my head.
It knocked on my eye lids
and showed me a way to clear out
the raging fires in my mind.
I didn’t know what to say
Dyslexic as I was.
Hand and pen deciphered the thoughts inside.
Strangely enough pen and book
taught me how to speak.
Faint as it was
on the tail end of a punishment,
the first poem written
spoke of the fire which still overpoweringly rages
within the abyss of my soul.
‘Then again
who knows
what I’ll do next?
The wind?’
Smyon-Pa 