The watchers call you cold—
a statue carved with surgical tools,
with steady hands from ruling lives,
dark-colored eyes trained to hold distance,
like the Moirai who spin the thread of life,
representing birth, yet you are the weaver of rebirth.
I never asked you for anything otherworldly,
yet I lost an arrow like Artemis
in the cracks of those broken temple walls.
And you, not knowing, carried it in your ribs.
Ashamed, and without thinking too much,
I came to leave a single orange blossom
on your altar, where the stones hold your warmth
for those who once waited for answers.
You were nothing like winter.
You were the warmth of dusk—
such as Orpheus sang for his beloved Eurydice,
a forgotten god resting in silence
with crimson lilies at his feet
and the scent of that orange blossom lingering.
With others, your gaze is an endless eclipse.
With me—
a soft dawn rising through the pyramids,
your shoulders softened,
and your heart balanced with the feather,
like I somehow showed you the passage
to the Fields of Reeds.
You never told me who you were.
You didn’t have to.
The soft tremble in your fingers
when I left the cup of red wine on your sacred tomb
told me more than language and oracles ever could.
Sometimes I feel like I’ve met you before—
on the steps of an Egyptian temple,
when I was a new priestess of Anubis,
and you brought jasmine flowers and truths
I wasn’t allowed, as a novice, to hear.
When eyes collided—purely and innocent—
you almost dropped your parchments
and didn’t flinch in anger.
Your hands—so skilled in precision—
shook slightly
when mine came too close for help.
You weren’t cold.
You were holding back the Great Flood
so no one would ever drown again.
But I—
I have always been made of water,
the kind that rises gently around the marble,
nurturing the oleanders.
I have known you
in ruins beneath vines,
under stars unspoken by many.
I was the voice in your darkness
when the world called you too quiet.
You were those hands around my shoulders
when I wept for things I could never name—
because they might become reality.
You are not stone.
You are fire beneath ash,
and I—
I have known for many lives
how to read the smoke.
So when you look at me
with eyes others call cold,
I see instead
a field of poppies behind them,
an armoured soul
whispering stay, please
with every blink.
I do not want to melt you.
I only want you to remember
that once,
you were seen—
not for your sharpness
but for your silence,
and those storms around you.
Oct 25, 2025
Oct 25, 2025 at 7:25 AM UTC
The watchers call you cold—
a statue carved with surgical tools,
with steady hands from ruling lives,
dark-colored eyes trained to hold distance,
like the Moirai who spin the thread of life,
representing birth, yet you are the weaver of rebirth.
I never asked you for anything otherworldly,
yet I lost an arrow like Artemis
in the cracks of those broken temple walls.
And you, not knowing, carried it in your ribs.
Ashamed, and without thinking too much,
I came to leave a single orange blossom
on your altar, where the stones hold your warmth
for those who once waited for answers.
You were nothing like winter.
You were the warmth of dusk—
such as Orpheus sang for his beloved Eurydice,
a forgotten god resting in silence
with crimson lilies at his feet
and the scent of that orange blossom lingering.
With others, your gaze is an endless eclipse.
With me—
a soft dawn rising through the pyramids,
your shoulders softened,
and your heart balanced with the feather,
like I somehow showed you the passage
to the Fields of Reeds.
You never told me who you were.
You didn’t have to.
The soft tremble in your fingers
when I left the cup of red wine on your sacred tomb
told me more than language and oracles ever could.
Sometimes I feel like I’ve met you before—
on the steps of an Egyptian temple,
when I was a new priestess of Anubis,
and you brought jasmine flowers and truths
I wasn’t allowed, as a novice, to hear.
When eyes collided—purely and innocent—
you almost dropped your parchments
and didn’t flinch in anger.
Your hands—so skilled in precision—
shook slightly
when mine came too close for help.
You weren’t cold.
You were holding back the Great Flood
so no one would ever drown again.
But I—
I have always been made of water,
the kind that rises gently around the marble,
nurturing the oleanders.
I have known you
in ruins beneath vines,
under stars unspoken by many.
I was the voice in your darkness
when the world called you too quiet.
You were those hands around my shoulders
when I wept for things I could never name—
because they might become reality.
You are not stone.
You are fire beneath ash,
and I—
I have known for many lives
how to read the smoke.
So when you look at me
with eyes others call cold,
I see instead
a field of poppies behind them,
an armoured soul
whispering stay, please
with every blink.
I do not want to melt you.
I only want you to remember
that once,
you were seen—
not for your sharpness
but for your silence,
and those storms around you.