PEARLS FROM ASH
PEARLS FROM ASH
My tears have turned into sacred pearls,
carried by the wind to the temple that stands mute and wordless,
they burned in the palm of sorrow like stars at sunset,
from their quiet ash another destiny has risen,
and I understood that my grief is nothing but a threshold of light.
I have loved this world with wounds hidden inside it and flowers grown from forgetting,
even though time breaks wings and leaves its shadows over us,
in every soul a sky still burns that keeps on asking for rain,
loving all that has died inside me and all that barely comes to life,
love is nothing but the light of the wound that cuts right through us.
I have gathered in my chest storms and boundless prayers,
and I've come to understand that sometimes the deepest wounds are holy,
because from wounds grows the beautiful power to give,
like trees that learn to bloom again after the long winter,
and the greatest gift in this world is the one secretly wounded.
And if one day silence calls me toward another shore,
know that I will stay in this world through every verse and grace,
through the verse that carries within it my love without an end,
like the morning star — never blinded by the breaking dawn,
and in my evening light may we still find each other alive.
Everything is tears and grace and ash and living prayer,
the temples fall silent while the wave of the moment carries us to the edge,
stars burn in the palm of night and drop onto the threshold of embers,
from their burning ash a new star will still rise,
the trees remind us that even winter is a passage toward new dawns.
I have loved this world with holy tears and fire,
with wounds hidden beneath the cold light of a heavy forgetting,
and I gathered in my chest holy destinies — storms and prayers,
because in every wound there is a doorway to a morning star
that burns in the heavens never put out — the morning star within us.
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