Some day when you hold a brush, a pen, or a stylus
Or whichever grand nephew of the quill is in business
I can picture you writing words to the next opera grand
Draw a path to the universe inside your mind with a few strokes of your hand.
Will you write of the Arab’s apprehensions towards Meursault’s intentions?
Or detective cases led astray before a new-age Sherlock’s interventions?
Will you write ruba'is or sonnets or plain and simple prose?
On science, the earth’s many seasons, and why before the world froze?
Will you chase after the mysteries of the mind
Or weave a melody with a guitar you wind?
Perhaps, you’ll learn a tongue exotic and quaint
Or forsake all words written, say a thousand and paint.
Whatever you do, I’ll be sure to strain my eyes, my ears, my heart to comprehend
Even if I fail time and again, I won’t stop - my will shall contend.
No matter who’s listening and who’s eyes are not open yet -
My girl, each of your words is as special as the first ‘Papa’ you ever said.
