Mother Night

I need to see your real face, Night;

Don’t wear your thick makeup of candlelight

Or reassure me with the ticking of the clock

Counting seconds in fear till the arrival of the morning;

/

I dream to speak to you in your tongue

Of heavy silence that makes tears fall,

When from the darkest corners of the lives forgotten

One’s every demon into their lap crawls;

/

I wish to rest my head against your chest,

Not watch you cautiously through windows and walls,

As if from freedom in a self-built cell

Locking myself until another tomorrow;
/

I want to love you like you do me,

And yet how can I with this plastic toy of a heart?

I want to know you like you know me,

And yet how can I with this mad clown of a mind?

/

At dusk I put all my past doubts to sleep,

Turn off the lights in my old home

And go back to you, Night, for you feel to me

Like to a prodigal daughter – her first Mother

To Remember

You, for whose wrongs I live in torture,

I wish I knew your name, at least;

I’m not you wife, I’m not your daughter –

You are whose soul lives on through me;

/

My hands are mine, my hands are yours,

And there were thousands before us;

Our own hands shaped and broke the world

With them we clung on and let go;

/

My voice is mine, and yet at times

It speaks in tones and tongues unknown,

To people just like you, long gone,

Trying to make peace with their ghosts;

/

And with my eyes on quiet nights

I see not dreams but recollections;

That life was yours, but it is me

Who keeps its skeletons and treasures;

/

Paths which my feet sometimes tread on

I recognize, and feel exhausted:

I’ve walked on them as you before,

And just like me, you were so lost then;

/

As I depart, with him I’ll plead,

With him, who’ll take from me the burden

Of all the wisdom and the ignorance,

Of all the love and all the hurt,

/

I’ll plead that, at the very least,

By him my name may be remembered,

So he can call to me and ask me of my sins

For which he must atone forever

The Brushstrokes

It’s all a dream:

The lowest moments

And the greatest,

The imperfections

And the changes

Made by the mind

To what was by the mind,

Confused,

Created;

/

It doesn’t hurt, really,

When in my nightmares

Hungry demons

Gnaw at my bones

And rip to pieces

The magic heart

That every morning

I find unfailingly

Beating in my chest;

/

It is all a mirage:

This face, this body,

Their existence

And their ultimate

Disintegration;

There’s nothing wrong

With pieces breaking,

Cracks manifesting

On the unforgiving skin

/

Painted over

Emptiness

In thick colors

Of fear

Named and signed

By the artist,

‘Me’ –

Both as a sentence

And a key

/

To freedom

The Mad Sails

And the sea was the color of lead;

Old sails writhed,

Like trapped snakes,

In the storm;

/

The few sea miles between two sea shores

Was a distance

Much to great

For her;

/

And the voices inside of her head

Sang:

‘This time you’re

Not making it home’;

/

‘You have minutes

To laugh or to weep,

To feel pain

Or be joyful and strong’;

/

‘You can regret or be grateful for

Every time

You could break

The world’s rules’;

/

‘You can curse those who hurt you

Or thank

Them for gifting you

With the armor of light’;

/

‘What you love, you’ll never again

Hold;

What you dream of

Now will not come true’;

/

‘You are over, and as you let go

Of ‘you’,

Do not sink, like this boat,

In the ocean!’

/

And her breath grew as heavy as death,

And her eyes

Were mirrors

To the monsoon skies;

/

The waves swallowed at last

Her mad sails;

Tired screams slept

In the water’s arms;

/

The sea soon turned a glowing turquoise,

And in the open skies

There soared

A lone bird