Email Poem

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Poem

In front of your birthday cake, you divide your life into slices,
and each slice bears a face, etched with the marks of the time it belongs to.
A knife on the platter is your portion, sharp edges cutting the icing
so gently, like your skin, that you cannot call it violence.
It’s not contrast, but distance, measured and distributed, condensed in your absence,
and from the crowd traveling on the waves of the path cut by the blade, no one asks:
How did you gather your wounds in your voice, even your silence bore cuts?
And why—under all the pressure of scars crowding together—
was a cry never born?
In a suspended moment, when the candles burn, time melts
in tears of wax, and shadows dance on the walls of your heart,
where each wound is a note in the symphony of silence,
and wishes blown into the darkness become falling stars,
guiding unfulfilled desires toward a horizon of forgetfulness.
Looking inside yourself, you discover that absence is not a void,
but a place where echoes of the past carry your name,
and scars become maps of unseen journeys,
where each path taken is an untold story,
and your shadows embrace the light as a testament of survival.
So, on your day, when the slice of cake measures your life,
wrap your pain in a warm silence, like a blanket over a grave,
and let absence be a presence, a fine line between what was and what will be,
for even without a cry, your story remains etched in the air you breathe.

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