Hands Meant for Emptiness
Hands Meant for Emptiness
Fate always plays its games with me, a game of dice and shattered mirrors,
It gives me a beautiful dream, then turns it back against me, silent,
The same beauty that once wrapped around me now haunts me from a distance,
A ghostly waltz through empty rooms, a shadow never lost.
It shows me every dream woven from stars and fine silk,
Palaces suspended in air, gardens growing only in the depths of sleep,
Then it yanks me suddenly out of reverie, as from still water,
Only to remind me, coldly, that my hands were meant for emptiness.
To give, then take back, is a cruelty as old as the world,
A gift offered with one hand and torn away with the other, mercilessly,
I feel my joy slipping through my fingers like sand, like foam,
And I'm left with palms burned by a fire that left no ember.
Maybe it would have been better to give me nothing, not one edge of light,
Maybe empty silence was gentler than a dream stolen and crooked,
Then I wouldn't have learned to tremble at the thought of losing, a stranger's
Thing that, either way, was never truly mine to keep, only lent.
I'm afraid now of the shadow behind every beautiful thing that passes through my life,
Knowing that everything arriving on a golden wing leaves just as fast,
I carry in me an old fear, like a scar without a face,
An echo of footsteps that never wanted to be known.
And yet I play, again, alongside this blind and cunning fate,
I follow its steps in its mad waltz, through fog, fire, and ice,
Maybe one day I won't want to win a stranger's illusion anymore,
But just walk with empty hands, at peace, through the rest of my life, as through mist.
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