I ll write every line of misery with the blood you gave me.
You have filled my ink pot and gave me the slates as walls of my place
and a stick you shaped as a pen.
Everytime i dip it into the ink of your blood it buds flowers,
but i sear I won't let them bloom but only on the slates.
We don't want flowers without you my brothers.
I promise i ll write everyday and give you a book with pages equal to the deaths I witness after you.
I hope I never get to more than a page and i pray that page is of my death.
As I want to write but do not fill my ink pot anymore.
It ll flood my floor
and it stares while I write with it.
Give me any ink but not red.
~Shafaq Shahid