There is a way that goes through the memories and leads it all the way to the bottom of the intimacy. It is a journey that fades on a sun that shines with all the events and the moments that are gone and will never show up again. It is the breeze of the desperation and the rain of the emotional clouds. Those they come with the winter of the truth and pinch up the storm of the tears to feed the river of life.
You can sit down and hold up your head amid your hands and try to control the flow of the days, but it will never be tamed. What is the meaning of all this hassle that takes the moments to the heights and paint our dreams with a rainbow of illusions? What is this pain that we have to endure for our survival? Shall I dive into the mother of the questions that will lead me into the labyrinth of the forgotten? Shall I drink my sorrow and swift my breath to throw out the years and the long tragedy? I cannot open my window to look out at my garden for fear to see the autumn leaves that undress the trees of my family. I cannot open the doors of my little solitude to the visitor that threaten my sweet memories. Where is the stone of heaven that I was promised when I came to life? Where is the beginning that I still have to start from? Why all this dark journey that left me in the middle of this nowhere? Whenever I start from a beginning, the path goes into an unknown trail that leads to a summit of another exile.
I have a deep feeling for those days and they are still living up to my heartbeat. I am afraid that they will disappear when I close up my eyes for my final rest. What will happen to my people when I go away? Will they still say the word that took my father behind that hill? Will they meet around the same table and talk about my grandmother? The land is with its people and my land is so thirsty. I will give my blood to keep it alive and set my soul free through the heights of that wonderful place where it all began. What sound resonates among the trees of my childhood? The traces of my feet and the laughter of my cousins they live in those bushes and between the ruins of our first home. My drink is empty and my candle is burning without any pity. I wish if I could make it pause for a while until I figure out a way to change it all the way it was meant to be.
Those eyes of all the innocence that kept my smile hidden behind the fog of the hunger of my early days tourned out to jade. The river of life never made it through to my meadow and my roses are dying. My blue lilac is no more virgin and her perfume is perishing. The field of my doom is arid and the birds have left the place. My moments are a loan of my tomorrow and I need a rest. The words flow up and flood my thoughts but they will never say it enough. The words will cry heavy tears but they will never reach up to that level where my relief seeks for a breath. What do I need to do? Why all this mess?