Sewicked

Tuesday, March 16, 2004

I really doubt that there is anyone in Spain or from Spain or who has relatives in Spain reading this, but just in case.

I am a writer, of prose and poetry. But the heart aches so, that my pen lies still. The flowing ink does not bleed, though my heart does. There are no words to express my grief, only silent tears, shed where you do not see.

Labels: bomb, Madrid, prose