The fourth book is done.
But, I love this one less than the first
which was written with my soul’s own ink.
These and the ones between
are others’ stories of courage,
youth, and sacrifice but only the first was written
with my soul’s own ink.
Although called a historian and author
I’m only a teller of tales, tales of those
whose deeds are greater than mine.
Of all the tales told, only the first
were written with my soul’s own ink.
Each person whose tale I scribe
takes a piece of my heart with them when they die.
But, each in turn, has enlarged to the cistern of my soul.
So perhaps I may in future write stories with the bottomless well of my soul’s own ink.