Vlado’s pen moves across the paper
His morning writing
He does it each day
As his coffee is brewing
And his wife is away
His words are deep
So are his thoughts
About life and love
Or tragedy and sadness
He lights candles on his desk
Even through the light of day
He sips coffee slowly
Drinks wine in afternoons
And often closes his eyes of pure luck
Vlado writes another chapter
Then looks around him
His wife is still not home
Another glass of wine
She’s probably fine
Is what he thinks as his pen moves across the paper
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