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In the shattered mirror of hollow empathy, I see fragments of myself drifting
In the shattered mirror of hollow empathy, I see fragments of myself drifting
In the shattered mirror of hollow empathy, I see fragments of myself drifting,
Like ash butterflies dancing in the cold wind of unspoken truth,
And their words—"I can't empathize"—are silver arrows piercing through
The illusory veil of superficial consolation, revealing the inner garden
Where I alone grow the cucumbers of wisdom, where I water the flowers of courage.
And I hear footsteps fading away down the corridor of memory, the steps of friends hurried
To their daily markets, to the Turkish dramas that swallow their evenings,
Leaving behind only the echo of a pat on the shoulder and a worn-out phrase
"Don't worry, it will all pass"—a devalued coin in the ATM of compassion,
While I remain here, in the fortress of self, counting my resources.
Ah, how strange this revelation—that in the absence of foreign comfort
I discover my own healing hands, my own wellspring of strength!
Like a tree finding water in its depths when the sky refuses to weep,
I learn to be self-sufficient, to measure my garden of limits with steady steps,
To cultivate my own remedies, to be my own sun and my own rain.
I no longer knock on foreign doors begging for understanding like a crust of bread,
But build from the bricks of imperfections a temple of maturity,
Where the echo of my steps resounds with fulfillment, not with a void to be filled,
Where each scar is a medal of self-sufficiency won in battle,
And where loneliness is no longer a fear, but a throne from which I contemplate my strength.
Copyright © Dan Enache | Year Posted 2024
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