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Poem

Under the veil of twilight, where shadows whisper secret truths,
Lies an unspoken world, untouched by the gentle hand of forgiveness.
No forgiveness for deeds, not even for stray thoughts,
Where the censor’s ink leaves the page blank, yet the truth unmoved.
In the echoes of the mountains, in the embrace of the fog, nothing dissolves,
Time breaches the healer’s vow, and our misdeeds rise large.
People will call upon us in dark times, and in vain,
Revealing no other perspective in the face of the abyss.
Perched upon the shoulders of our dead, the sins and betrayals of yore,
In ancestral tales, they are just deceit and villainy—
Our language offers no cure for this leprosy of the soul.
Do not hope to blame age or chance, or the poverty of spirit.
No escape in environment, in education, boredom, or backwardness,
Eyes entwined, bodies imperfect, talents scarcely sufficient.
To hear not, to know not, to leave lessons unanswered,
Standing still at the threshold of enlightened worlds.
Those who survived are only ancestors, do not boast, children,
Whisper a word for us, the unforgiven,
Who bear the weight of history’s silent reproach,
Lost souls seeking the elusive embrace of redemption.
In dreams, we traverse mist-laden paths to forgotten realms,
Where the ghosts of past mistakes cast lingering shadows,
And the melancholic dance of memory weaves its magic,
Binding us in a spell of intertwined sorrow and hope.
For in this twilight, where past and present converge,
We find the delicate balance of our existence,
A symphony of what was and what could be,
In the ever-flowing river of time’s poignant reflection.

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