Her Tears in the Boundless Night
Her Tears in the Boundless Night
She doesn't cry with a storm's roar in her chest, but in the savage silence,
When the room becomes a tomb of shadows and hope sleeps forgotten,
Her tears fall like drops of wax from an old silver candle,
In that implacable void where even the echo is afraid to breathe.
Her pale face is not a sign of weakness, but a scar of heavy strength,
Nights take pieces from her soul like greedy and cold sorcerers,
Morning always demands its tribute—false smiles, domesticated gestures—
And she carries pain like a secret religion, without altars and without psalms.
Her eyes don't beg for understanding from this blind and deaf world,
They understand first, they shelter entire storms in depths of calm ocean,
They protect others before bandaging their own open wounds,
Her heart is unfair to her—it forgives too easily, loves in unsafe ruins.
And yet... she loved me when she herself was breaking in a thousand mirrors,
When her hands trembled like sick leaves on branches of late autumn,
She didn't ask me to save her from her labyrinth of thorns and melancholy,
But loved gently, sincerely, like the last beautiful thing in a lost world.
If there is strength I believe in, it looks like her—soft in cruelty,
Standing in her own wounds as in a temple lit by sacred pain,
Choosing kindness when the world demands blood, choosing love when it costs everything,
She is the magic psychedelic of existence—a living poem that refuses to die.
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