Mother Blue
Mother Blue
The blue hour stretches over decades, an old wound reopening,
an endless war between the night and the day that slowly dies,
the day falls defeated, knees sinking into evening's ashes,
breathing its last breath, cold as air from a hollow cave.
Sapphire slips through windowpanes like a liquid tear,
like the dying light in the theater of a gentle play,
like a mother tucking her child beneath the evening's sheet,
whispering from the doorway that it was enough, that I'm still holding on.
Ocean blue, the fearful color of my own regret,
did I live this day the way I was meant to live it?
the question grows inside me with every strike of the clock,
and the birds announce the dusk, sharpening their voices toward the moon,
to tell it how I lost the day again, letting it slip away,
and Mother Blue grows quietly sad, hidden behind heavy clouds.
Mother Blue, scold me for my laziness, for the wasted hours,
show me how quickly the day fades, how fast the time runs out,
you, who raised me since I first made out the first color,
but don't remind me of the ones I'd rather forget for good,
don't drag your cold fingers across my tear-soaked cheek,
don't wake what must go on sleeping in the depths of me.
And as you stretch over decades more, like smoke without a shape,
I hope you'll be more proud than disappointed, Mother Blue,
I hope to wait for you not with fear, but with an open heart,
I hope your hour will come gently, like a blessing.
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