I closed my eyes in the dark,
at the banisters where we make clouds
and I asked, “what does the Sun require of me?
What can't I see apart from her brightness
and what can't I hear aside from her silence?“
And the vapours carried my questions.
And a voice carried by the summer air answered:
“Why do you waste time writing about her,
describing detail after detail hoping that
your metaphors would veil your thoughts
yet expect her to understand as if
you had written it in prose?
“Why is she the Sun to you
when she has always been cold
even when you tried to be bold and
sacrificed the life of such beautiful petals
and precious metals and your shame on the net;
yet, anticipate a season of warmth?
“But if there is anything you need to know
it is that she understands everything now.
And the cold may not yet lift your sorrows;
some time, some how she will find the power
to speak and tell you of the joys you give
but had been hiding for days and weeks
hoping that you would retreat and not
give her the chance to fall.
“She has fallen. Give her time. She has fallen.”
I opened my eyes in the dark,
at the banisters where clouds meet smoke.
I told myself that if this were a divine joke
I should laugh out loud as I do in cyberspace.
And I did. And everything became quiet.
I wish it were all true.