With His Name, the Most High
My dear candle, burn slowly, for that I have a long night to endure.
My dear pen, bleed steadily, for that I have a heavy word to bear.
My dear paper, stand firm, for I have a dreadful letter to carry...
My dear candle, I see you melting, giving light, so that I in cooperation with pen
burden this pure white paper with my crumbled words.
That is the ultimate sacrifice. You melt to give light to others.
Or is it?
Sometimes, my dear candle, I wonder. Are you melting and giving light to the blind? Is your flame burning to smoke, for the teasing of mighty clouds? Why such sacrifice?
You melt to vanity, not even knowing what I’m about to write.
That is the ultimate trust. You don’t bother checking my work, yet for it, you burn.
Is it really trust? Or could it be absolute ignorance of yours?
Sometimes, I feel sorry for you.
And I can relate to you so much.
My dear candle.
You are so lonely.
Melting in yourself, with no attention, no friends, no visitors.
Or did you think that the moth is visiting you?
No. The moth is not attracted to you.
The moth is coming to the flame of yours.
Your flame burns you and your only visitor, who‘s not really there to visit you!
And what’s a candle with no flame?
Sigh my dear candle, oh sigh!
Oh sigh to this loneliness, oh sigh!
I can relate to you so much.
My dear pen, I see you dripping your blood, bleeding ink, granting words to my troubled thoughts.
Sometimes, my dear pen, I wonder. Are you giving your blood to words that don’t matter?
Or perhaps the words are strong and mighty, but for whom? The blind? Those who can not read?
Or perhaps the words matter, but to those who are dead and wouldn’t be able to read?
Regardless, you bleed with no question, with complete trust in me.
Bleeding for what you know not.
Sometimes I feel sorry for you.
And I can relate to you so much.
My dear pen.
You are so lonely.
Bleeding by yourself, with no friends or visitors.
Or did you think that the writer is your friend? Taking you as a weapon?
Feel strong by that? Mighty?
Well, don’t!
It’s not you that the writer wants, my dear pen. It’s your ink, your blood.
Your only friend, visitor and companion, bleeds you to death for his own words which you cannot understand or see.
And what’s a pen with no ink?
My dear pen, you are so lonely.
Sigh my dear pen, oh sigh!
Oh sigh to this loneliness, oh sigh!
My dear paper.
You must feel very proud.
Proud of your purity, white with no spot.
Ready, bravely, to bear the blood of pen and the message of candle.
Hence, you are the conclusion of candle & pen’s sacrifice.
You make it possible for the words to have a place.
If there are no readers now, not to worry; you the paper, will carry the words until someone comes along and reads. Someone who can see, and will read to those who can listen.
Without you, my dear paper, pen’s blood and candle’s flame have no meaning.
But that’s all wishful thinking you have.
My wounded pen bleeding my broken words onto your fragile skin, violating your purity.
For what words?
If the words matter, for what reader?
When will they come along?
Here you are with two choices: remain pure with no spot, which makes you meaningless.
Or, you can stain yourself, ending your innocence, to bear the message of someone you do not know, for words you do not understand.
Sigh my dear paper, oh sigh!
Oh sigh to this loneliness, oh sigh!
Then there is me.
Joining candle, pen and paper and throwing a lonely gathering.
Melting, bleeding, enduring, weeping.
For what people?!
My dear candle, pen & paper. Is my life … you? Melting away to smoke, dripping blood to ambiguity, and staining my destiny with twisted words…for people who do not see? Do not hear? Do not comprehend?
My Dear candle, you are gone, melted, taking your last light.
My dear pen, you are dead now, all your blood gone.
My dear paper, your innocence, sacrificed for my words.
The night ended.
Dawn is near.
And my pain continues.
It’s not the length of night.
It’s the length of my story that is too much for the night to carry.
Sun is rising, candle melted, night ended, pen is dead.
What remains is me and you the reader.
Now, it is up to you, to read, comprehend and understand my pain and anguish.
But then, why should you care?
Do I have light to burn for you?
Ink to bleed for you?
Or offer a pure platform, for your thoughts?
But then, that will be about you, not me and my painful complaint.
Sigh oh sigh!
Sigh to this loneliness, oh sigh!
But wait!
One would listen to my grievance.
The One who granted me the light, the blood and the purity.
For that He is of no need, everlasting, listening, responding to the devastated injured slave who calls upon Him.
And such call will give an eternal meaning to the candle, its light, its visitor, and its death.
It will give eternal peace to the pen and its ink, and an eternal purity to the sacrificing paper.
So in Him I shall melt, for Him I shall bleed, to Him I shall sacrifice, and to Him I shall complain.
After all, to Him we all shall return