Where was I
Haunting questions
gather, slow and heavy,
threads of shadow
twining ruin in their grasp:
why did He permit it?
Why them, and not others?
A finger rises,
silent, merciless,
piercing the sky’s veins,
a cry turned to stone,
accusing the eternal.
Yet I do not lay on God
the weight of every wound,
nor shatter silence
with the clamor of doubt.
Instead, I remain,
a vigilant dust,
and within me,
a thought stirs, trembling:
where was I,
a scattered fragment,
when He sketched
the abyss and the light?
When the first breath
stirred the void
and the Word
unfolded on the wind?
Copyright © Maurizio Cortese | Year Posted 2025
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