A woman was humming a winter hymn.
She wore a thick Russian cloak, and her fingers were tapping the stained glass. Snowflakes framed her eye lashes. Vicious wind were hitting her old bones, weariness settled deep in her chest.
She had been away far too long.
Looking at a window, she saw her reflection.
Her eyes were sharp cold blue, but it was sunken and there were frozen tear tracks on her cheek.
Her fingers were gnarled, and wrinkles marred her face. Her used to be golden hair, was as white as snow.
She barely remember the days now.
A baby wail could be heard coming from a house, lit with thousand warm candles.
Looking up, she realized that she's a grandmother now.
The man pulled out his cigarettes, his riffle by his side. Sitting in front of his porch, with a glass of scotch, remembering the horrid symphony of gun shots. His shoulder was aching.
He had been a soldier, he had been at war, and now he was in his house.
But he was still lost in the desert.
He gripped his glass tighter as the deaths that he had caused flashes before his eyes.
He felt cold at the knowledge that settled in the pit of his heart.
He was not a war hero, he was a murderer.
The glass shattered.
The wind blew her bright hair. It was similar to the color of autumn leaves and burning fire. She was wearing a scarf the color of lion, Lilies crowning her head.
She was holding up a shield.
A feeling of warmth, like one would get after drinking warm chocolate, washed over her. Her bright green eyes was filled with fondness at the sight of her stag cooing over her baby.
Ravens were cawing over her head, an omen.
Her face was grim, she knows they're not going to last any longer.
Death was arriving.
A bright yellow dot could be seen moving in the forest. It was a boy who was wearing a rain coat.
He was running around, playing by him self.
Diving into a pile of leaves, jumping over tangled roots, climbing trees, and picking apples.
He didn't tell his mother where he had gone.
The sound of trickling water lulled the freckled covered boy away. He stood in front of an old abandoned house. The smell of ginger bread was wafting through the air.
He ignored the hanging body on the tree, and put on the fallen hat.
For the first time, he felt he was home.
He was named after the emperor. The one history called a legend. His parent had hoped that he could escape the chain of slavery that had shackled their family for generations.
He wondered sometimes if he skinned his skin, would he stop being a slave?
After all he would be pink instead of brown.
They branded him like a cattle. Passing him down from one master to another. Calling him pretty for his species. The marks always burns when he felt like his dignity was stomped on as if it didn't matter.
He knows it didn't matter to them.
The day he broke the chain, the grass turned red instead of withering
VII. July & VI. June
They were born from the same chrysalis. Spun from silk and privilege. Yet one got tossed away and the other were put in a gilded cage.
The boy with corn silk hair and gleaming pearly wings was staring out of his room. He was locked with gold in his little cupboard. Only to be let out when they needed to show him off.
He stared down waiting for his shadows.
The girl with iridescent eyes and tattered black wings had lived in the ruins all her life. Her small frame was littered with cuts and the harshness of life.
But she stood strong, her back unbending.
She stared up at her light, and asked for his hand.
Fate decrees that neither could fly, with out the other.
The market was bustling with people. A middle aged woman stood in her stall, selling vegetables and fruits. Her nephew was bringing her baskets full of wild berries for jam. He was 6 years old with a gap toothed grin and untamable hair.
His eyes were electric yellow.
The woman stared at the boy sadly. Remembering that day on the moor when wolves slaughtered her sister's family.
She thanked him and ruffled his hair. The boy gave her an abashed smile.
She noticed a man with a nasty smile, shooting her nephew a predatory look. The man approached her stall, asking to buy apples while looking at her nephew ravenously as if he was hungry for him.
She understood what she have to do.
She put on her sweetest charm and gave him an apple for free. The man nodded, appreciating the offer. Said his thanks and went back to the shadows.
The man didn't notice that the apple he had just bitten were kissed by Belladonna.
A mute girl was sitting in the palace garden. She braided flowers into her hair, adding pale green ribbon with a flourish. She wore a white dress with lace on it's border. She looked like a sacrificial lamb.
A knife was lying on the floor, she had just cut her hair short.
As she keep braiding, she dreamt of home.
Of the deep blue water, gentle waves lapping at her body, sea shells that she liked to collect, pearls braided in her hair, about exploring the oceans with her sisters.
She could barely move her legs, now.
She realized, belatedly, that maybe the price was too heavy.
The marching band passed the town that day. Trumpet, drums, cymbals, and xylophones were shouting in harmonies. A marvelous fusion of sound, creating joy behind them.
A teenager, with curly hair and sun kissed skin, was staring at them in awe.
A violin was clutched on his hand, the last gift from his father. It was his first time seeing a marching band. He wonders if the delicate moan of his violin would complement them.
He knows that it won't, but it wouldn't stop him from wondering.
He was not his father.
A family of three was preparing their dinner in the kitchen. It was the birthday of the son.
The mother was busy preparing the roast, cutting up vegetables and spicing the meat. The father was helping the mother preparing the roast, he was making the mashed potatoes. They were dancing around each other, as they navigate the kitchen.
Their son, who have a cherubic face, watched them with adoration.
One threw an onion at the other, the other caught it. Exchanging tools and spices with an easy glide. Kisses were traded, intricate steps were taken.
They both move with trust on their heel, and souls entwined.
Love was still in the air, even after all the storms.
Their son understood that no one can take the matching arrows embedded at his parents back.
After all, they stabbed it them self.
A mother was lying on a hospital bed. Green buds were peeking out from the snow.
She had just given birth. Her breathing was labored as she struggles to breath. A frown appeared on her face when the nurse gave her a bundle to hold.
It was her baby girl.
The baby opened her eyes and let out a gurgling giggle. It was the most beautiful sound the mother had heard.
Big doe eyes, that resembled her mother's, watched as wet tears were falling from her mother's eyes.
The mother clutched her daughter tight against her chest.
Realization struck her like ligtning,
She knows that she couldn't give her baby away.
A long long poem made on the theme of ephiphany. Thank you for those who read this poem.