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The Hands That Lit Eternity
her hands
did not turn on light bulbs.
they were light bulbs,
they were clay vessels through which flowed
a light tired from too much godliness.
when she entered the room,
it wasn’t her who entered,
it was a silence that had lost its voice
in a burned temple,
and had come searching for it inside me.
the angel beneath the bed
came out like a healed shadow
and whispered to me:
“Now you can sleep,
your mother’s hands are keeping watch.”
and I,
a child uttering
his first prayer,
looked into my mother’s palms
as if into a holy book,
unknown,
but true.
once,
an old woman from the village told me:
“Women like your mother
do not come into the world, they pour forth,
like light from icons
or like God from a child.”
since then,
when I think of light,
I do not see the sun,
but my mom’s hands
wiping the dust
from the face of the world.
Copyright ©
Florin Lacatus
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