I remember it well (A Short Story)

(Here is a little story I have written: thank you for reading!)

The way the hand moved,

And the pen rolled

O yes!

I remember it well!

That was how it flowed

How it rolled

How it taught me

All I did was look

Because it called and I listened, 

And that was how I found the place; 

I remember it more than anything else

It led me to the window with no view

It said there is a view out there,

'No one will see it until you draw it...

'Here is the pen and here is your ink - now write.'

Those were its words.

I remember it well...

I looked that was all I did, 

Look that was all - my pen did the rest,

The pen walked the ways of the paper.  I watched it skip across the length of the paper as if in a dance, and in silence it wrote - 

With words green hills were formed, in letters white mist stretched the fields, in lines the sun rose - and in several final strokes the arms of the sun stretched to clear the way for the flowers to lift and open their heads.

When the pen scratched the paper one last time I felt the warmth of the sun on my face, and on my right shoulder did grace, a yellow orb of light - my own little star - as small as a wisp, and inside of it I felt the song of labouring hearts, they were resounding, the souls of a thousand lives flowing in and out of time.

It lingered there, the orb, from my right to my lift, I heard it sing:

I remember it well.

When I looked into the shadow of it I saw its light shine through, and that was when I knew that it's coat was hard but its heart was pure.

That light of no colour disappeared behind my eyes.  As my lids opened again there was the slender flame of the candle before me.  I put down my pen - it had taken its last stroke for that day.  Time for it and me to sleep.

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