Is there a light in the world
that can shed clarity
on these questions?

My voice sounds sorrowful,
as if it’s weeping in the silence
that has been stolen,
never fully closed off,
and unable to share what is real.

In thought, one might ponder:
How can I inflict harm
with forbidden words
while tearing apart
from what I truly desire?

Secrets are etched in books,
captured between lines,
frozen in a soft revelation.
I am trapped in thoughts.
The sorrow of a trusted one
who has been deceived.

And then... I realize I have changed
and taken leave of a chill
that lies deep beneath,
but never revealed.

I ask: is this who I truly see?
Always revisiting earlier questions,
one wonders who we were now,
in the present.

With every breath comes the question:
If everything becomes later,
and stopping only continues
to move forward,
will we proceed incomprehensibly?

A voice telling me to hold it tight,
In a sound of words that split the night.
Emotions rise, part of the scar,
An image... like a falling star.
Even when no one comes, I know,
It will be like Mum's.

In this art the meadow was full of animal, she was the heart.
The rats had disappeared in their own guilt, and each read that
in his preciousness. We began to share, the tail of the waters,
and the exchange turned. The old life was scarred, but the tears remained, woven into the granting. Beloved, do not hurry in this silent course.

The East will return in the reds of winter, it will wash again, wash away waste. A man will come one day, he will guard you, he is the one with the end of threads. Yet he too will struggle, arrows shoot through him like warts. And his hard shares die. But he is divided, he has made a point, ends by drawing a star.

The shadows were his sores, his performance will be tangled in dew. Heads will become haters, and wars will come. The dew will not let itself disappear, and everyone will struggle, hear, but you must know; the shadows live under the white. Take Heading, hang the wreaths, hang them all outside.

And finally I ask you; Why was it the earth that stared, rats that washed the sewers, and why was the thread stripped of its yarn, was the shaving past gone, and why was everything so good, to be traded in the end?