Florin Lacatus Poet Free verse

When God Teaches His Sorrows to Be Silent

I was born from a wound in the sky,
when God, careless with eternity,
shook the dust from His hands,
and from that dust a name was chosen:
mine.

No one called for me.
Perhaps only a weary angel
who wanted to see
what pain looks like in human flesh:
like a wound that writes itself
on the palms of the One who forgot how to heal.

Someone, somewhere, needed
a man to scream in whispers,
a poet who knows
that not every wound will close,
but every pain has a purpose:
even if it is never to be found.

Since then I wander the world
with a broken lamp in my heart,
seeking to whom it matters
that I hurt this way.

Perhaps my suffering is the currency
with which others’ peace is paid.
Perhaps it’s a lost prayer
that still keeps the world in balance.
Perhaps it’s only an exercise of God,
who, through me,
learns what it means to be mortal.

Sometimes I think I was born
so that someone else would not be.
That I carry within me the weight
of all that was left unsaid,
I release air for a flower,
breath for a child,
a smile for a woman
who still believes in love.

And then my pain takes shape,
becomes the altar of a hidden logic,
where tears are but
imperfect forms of grace.

I was born so silence could have a voice,
so that God might see Himself reflected
in a man who no longer asks “why,”
but only, “for whom is it useful that I am?”

And if the answer does not come,
perhaps it is because my suffering
is not meant to be understood,
but simply lived
like a psalm written in blood
on the walls of His heart.

Perhaps I was not made to be happy,
but to be true.
To burn without understanding,
yet to shine without asking for anything in return.

And when silence spoke to me,
it did not caress me:
it recognized me.
And then I understood:
my suffering is not mine,
but His, who, being unable to die,
chose to suffer through me.

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