Cordelia, a grave of memory to me
And what is more frightening than death
Is that it’s not memory, but a stone.
Not the kind that grinds wheat,
Cuts water, or guards the dead —
But a hollow roadside boulder,
Through which the sky threads itself
Like thread through a needle.
And a passerby’s gaze
Runs not to the stone —
But away from it.
Why do you disturb the stone with your word?
Leave it — be merciful —
The palms once dropped the sword of love.
And the body cannot bear those parts
That once were soul —
That remember blood
And the scent of life
In a smile,
In the movement of wrinkles.
Go. Live.
There is so much falsehood —
Find at least one worthy reason.
Go. Live.
Let the stone’s path be undisturbed.
Свидетельство о публикации №125062108303