Under the light weight of every thought, it has drawn bridges, numbers, an entire world of signs that the air embraced, to the extreme shaft, naked and face.
No more promises of perfect lines, nor fury etched in honest rows; now the wood rests, a short point, with the weariness of work complete.
And its silence is not one without end, but mute echo of every joyful syllable that has sprung from its mine, a story finished, yet still infinite.