When I was a child, I had a dream:
nameless souls surrounded me
in a circle of light.
They told me I had to live this life
in pastel shades of grey,
in autumn rains and freezing winters,
with returning hope in the sunlight of spring.
The world is full of wounded branches,
they said:
you will feel where they hurt,
but don’t speak of it.
To be seen in pain
renders them exposed and fragile.
I didn’t listen, I didn’t understand.
I wanted to save the world and myself.
Now I only whisper words softly,
knowing they won’t change the flow of time.
Pain remains pain, and loss remains loss.
I stay for a while in a quiet presence,
watching where the light still flickers,
so they don’t lose hope
when, in their own world,
the glow has faded.