A Letter To My Beloved

A LETTER TO MY BELOVED While I am writing this letter to You, my one and only, the mute wind, utterly silent and stealthy, has opened the doors of the old church, and carried away the prayers along the white heavenly fields. The mute wind never opens my door, because he knows that my prayers ran dry long since, just like my tears. While the eternally faithful solitude carries my passions across the face of the bloody horizon, my memories are slowly dying on the bonfire of the demonic fire of oblivion. My one and only, I am not afraid of my own death, I am afraid of the death of our memories. You remember, my one and only, the cheerful song of the golden bird on the red rose’s petal, when You used to bestow me with kisses, moist and reverberant, warm and dreamy. My pen is trembling in my hand, just like that red rose, where Your gentle gaze is no longer present. You know, my one and only, one of the rose’s petals shivers in the wind more than all the others. It is the same petal you used to fondle at the break of day. Its face is perfectly human yearning and lonely like mine. Up there, the golden bird is singing, while down here solitude is following my steps. Why won’t it be killed? Because its grave lies down there along with many souls, because human laws do not apply to it. And when the mute wind started wistfully humming in the tired night’s embrace, I continued wandering the world with the inexplicable hope that I might, perchance, walk into You. Days, months and years were carried away by the capricious wind of destiny, and You still remained but a memory. There is no pain in my defunct heart, everything is so distant and meaningless without You, and You are so far, and me, I never took part in anything again. And when that golden bird, amidst its cheerful song, would casually look into my eyes, I would be stricken with indescribable memories. And while the April sky rose above its quivering golden head, I knew that its song travels towards a borderline, invisible world, just like all our memories do. Do not worry, my one and only, the day will come, our day, when the golden bird shall sing for us only, and when that rose petal shall once again tremble in Your hand, just like my hand shall tremble in Your hand. ©Walter William Safar