The pen dropped from an unknown hand
It's black ink became one with the sand
The paper fled with the wind
As the fresh air became humid
At the end of the paper, no number sign was found
Nor a familiar encircled 30 seen around
The article has no end for it is not yet finished
Like a house's furniture not furnished
I picked up the pen from the ground
My tears' floodgates opened and fell
The original owner is nowhere to be found
But it held a lot of memory we need to tell
The paper dropped from the sky
As the writer gained wings to fly
The article remained unfinished
But the writer's life was finished