Deep into a winter night,
from the river caused of my burning tears,
which flayed right and left,
a saint emerged- shielded well from the menace of my silent sobs.
And stayed him there, a lot of time,
carving the painting of my greed which my tears covered.
Night weared in,
dusk shaped hope, and future,
them those shining oranges. In spirit,
cried I a lot unto him.
Tears, them lava from volcano,
melted shields of him, too much and through,
in shades of orange, he consoled me and
in generosity, gifting me a bowl of beauty
“Cry more child,
and shed drops nowhere but in here.
Let alone the lusture of your tears
conjure themselves into the jewels of merry,
that they’ll become.”
Said him to me, while the river looked a dream, his presence too.
Then began the wait.
Nights and days looked twins,
words like years and months evolved.
Long, long and still long the wait gone,
before folklores of this wait sprouted,
big bang and this miserable wait of mine became events of same time.
You know that time my reader.
Time none is sure about,
and so do my wait for a drop of tear.
With faded rays of hope, I still desire
for one more line of burning liquid,
flay my skin, soaking my breath with smell of fired flesh. I desire for that drop,
and have channeled for its way into
the bowl, already.
Tears had dried up, so had my fortune.
I cried never again.
Not in hyper-dismay nor in utterance of pitched anger.
Centuries of winter nights are long gone,
world has halted, far hidden from winters and summers, days and nights, and in
great agony, I still wait for
myself to cry,
to inbreed myself of the fortune
I never deserved.