Nobody now knows
What this writer shows,
White words he’s writing,
Crying out the black crows.
Black days, they’re here,
White ways, there where?
Silent sounds, vertical grounds,
Cold feelings, a writer shares.
Nobody knows, what words say,
What they say must be grey.
Do they cry? Do they shine?
Do they speak? Or do they pray?
They stopped, the chirping birds,
Written away, from human herds,
Still nobody understands,
What they say, the White Words.
© Mansidak singh 2018