I lay on the bedroom floor, looking at the sky.
The blue filled sky with dandelions and hope.
The white petals cover the sky, as the yellow pistil covers my room with its golden pollen.
The pollen shines through the paper thin curtains,
that take the form of a star.
Star silhouette that reminds me of the one above Bethlehem,
the Nordic star that was to guide people to its saviour.
It gets me to wonder.
Am I shouting loud enough?
Am I shouting loud enough
for the petals to wither away and make gray the new blue?
Loud enough for the star
that was supposed to guide me through the misty paths with muddy pits that drown adventurous,
to lower its rays so they are no longer able to cut the surroundings with guilt?
Every ray of pollen that hits the windows and grass,
cuts right thru the paper thin curtains which reveal the dirt and dust the room is left in.
No matter the effort.
No matter the hope.
No matter the screams.
The dirt stays there.
It stays right where it’s left.
Time moves, places stay.
The star formed pollen shines through the paper revealing all its secret.
Wishes and screams it held inside,
Now being poured out onto the wall
in shapes and figures that tell
decades of stories,
decades of history,
decades of dirt.
Suddenly everything falls silent. Everything except the stories the curtains hold.
They whisper and talk,
cry and whimper,
shout and beg.
Everything happens so quietly that it is impossible to notice,
so quietly that even a snail that carries its whole world
would make a bigger disturbance.
The only thing that reveals the tragic game of monopoly and irony of music,
is the paper thin curtains that keep shouting and begging,
but still overpowered by the world around.
Especially in times when our voices are silenced, we need to hold together through dirt and pollen. And lower the guilting pistil.
