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And perhaps the blood had to flow like a red river under the moon
And perhaps the blood had to flow like a red river under the moon,
Perhaps the skin had to open like a flower in a storm,
To let the soul break free from the grip of silent shadows,
I do not blame the hands that painted a silent story on the body.
But how do I tell the one who still brings silk bandages,
The one who kneels beside me as gently as a breeze,
Trying to gather the shards of a stained glass that has learned to be broken,
How do I tell them that I have learned to live in fragments of a forgotten soul?
How do I tell them that this wound feels more alive left under the open sky?
How do I tell them that what they carry is a treasure of light,
The tenderness of their hands, the desire to heal the shadows within me,
But that I no longer carry a heart that beats to the same desires?
I don't want to break them as I was broken by life's storms,
I don't want to shatter them with the burden of the pain that enveloped me.
So let it bleed like a spring flowing from the mountain,
Let it breathe like a wind whispering through autumn leaves,
Let this pain be a part of me,
Not something that needs to be repaired, but something that needs to be known and felt.
Please, leave it uncovered under the starry sky.
Perhaps healing does not lie in covering with silk,
But in freeing the soul from the cage of pain,
In letting go of what can no longer be held prisoner.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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