Many months ago,
I got a pen.
It had it’s own style.
It would write about hills and squirrels.
About long lost rivers and sights.
About those water,
Whose flow would quench the thirst of all.
One day it mesmerized,
Made me think in wonder.
Did it have a life of its own?
As it could write without stopping.
It would tell me of those destinations,
Where thunder would rock the heavens,
Yet the people went to their work,
For there the rain was their friend.
The pen could go on and on.
A day came when I noticed,
It wasn’t me who was the creator,
But my beloved pen. Adios!