On the night of the Barley moon
he became a lost soul;
dark matter in the whirlpool of creation;
the dust of a burned-out star;
a fading light;
a fake miracle;
a fallen angel.
He had forsaken his loved ones;
he had forsaken his God.
And God punished him.
He was sentenced
to drift in the cosmos
locked inside a shell of desolation,
in a bubble of unfulfilled prayers,
in a prison of false hopes.
And any one who loved him was cursed
to hurt him and be hurt by him in return.
He died like he was born:
Listening to the cries of his fears;
to the dull beating of his sorrow.
Cold, weak...
alone.
A wise man had told me once that as long as you don’t lock yourself in a cage of fear, sorrow, and despair, any action you take, any “mistake” you make, always brings you (eventually at least) to a better place. Just accept it. No regrets! Regrets are the first step toward that cage of fear. Everything is for the best. Just keep on moving. CeCe
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Niko, there's a good old Scottish saying that goes: - Rainbows come out o' rain's drips; meaning to know joy you must know sorrow; so take courage, you can unwrap your future; and take comfort - my much respected friend. Elizabeth