She pens them down between her meals,
While I wait an eternity to watch the black letters dance
on thin creamy white paper.

Her words are made of the stuff of Noise,
To me they are the last drops of cool crystal-clear water
in a dying, burning desert world.

The talk is worthless, meaning nothing, saying nothing.
For these ears they are the golden notes of a timeless master,
Mozart, Tansen, Jackson - you choose.

They say its the words that matter; you can't read garbage.
Tell that to the poor soul, reading bland letters from his uncaring love,
And still savouring in those crass composition of alphabets,
all the spices of the Indies.

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