The Slow Corrosion of the Ink Drop

From the nib, a black point detaches,
suspended for a moment in the inert air;
then upon the whiteness of the page it arrives,
a liquid wound, unripe and flowing
that the immaculate sheet does not repel,
but accepts within itself, in uncertain wait.

It is not merely color that spreads out,
nor the clear shadow of a new form:
but another substance that expands,
where the inner fiber is tested,
and every minimum weave surrenders
to what it drinks and its white nest.

Thus the drop, once unknown and alone,
becomes a root, an inextricable knot;
and the white field, which no longer flies away,
bears its sign, strong, indelible.
It is not writing, but a slow mill
that changes the essence, fragile, unrepeatable.