I Can't Not Write, Though You Kill Me

I can't not write, though you kill me. I can't not make up new lines, just as the nightingale can't not sing. What use to the forest is one who's mute? I can't not put together what the eye catches in a world that rushes ahead. Like a child, without spiteful pranks, I truly believe the word doesn't lie. I can't not share the good that won't take a step without the bad. So that in time the chrome of hardness is turned into a colander by the rust of love. I can't, I won't be able, and I couldn't hide the light that strives to get out, so the cursed smog would clear, the one gathering its strength in me. I am sure that with the help of words the essence of the spirit will draw near. I'll stop being a dweller of dreams and go on along the path I've begun.