Your eyes are raised to heavennWhen I’m sitting on the floornAt your feet. What am I for?nDo I create or just translatenBetween you and your mindnThe art you’ll never findnAnd when your pen runs out of inknYou’ll close the book and with menLeave behind your memorynAre you brilliant? Are you blind?nWould you have nothing more to saynIf I ever flew awaynIn the end is it you is it menDo I have anything? What am I for?nBut when I walk out that doornYour prayers are plenty when you havenAn empty page before younAnd still I may adore younFor you take dictation betternThan most poets true composenYour lines far surpass thosenYou pray for what you know will comenYour confidence is flatteringnBut still it’s quite another thingnCompelled to inspire when to dreamnIs all you really understandnThe letters from your handnWill never quite belong to younAnd even then I only praynThat when I leave you’ll softly saynGoodbye