“What cannot be said will be wept.” - Sappho
Sometimes I cry. Everybody cries. Eyes look so beautiful after tears, clear and bright, like a landscape cleansed by the rain when the first sun rays reappear. Our gaze like two shiny orbs illuminating the face, pearls of incandescent sun, fire born in waters.
Sometimes my sobs, as if to wash my emotions, to offer them the purity of a Wasserfall, the place where falling seems like an elevation, each drop of water rising in vapour as it is touching the pond, each drop of my body salt like crystals of my kaleidoscopic souls.
Tears like libations, favourite sacrifices. Gods must love me well. I see them falling on my hands, and my hands will know better how to give. As they dry to only reveal their salt, to accept that whatever is given, will never be more than a trace, an accidental nothing-much. To watch in awe the transformation, salty poem of my tears.
I cry sometimes without a reason, or a dreamt, imagined one, with a flood of tears splashed over my face. These are not lady tears, shiny little pearls beading at the corner of the eye, but streaming mud traces that are spread further with the palm. Dirty tears, that I lick and which are tasting delicious.
Weeping over an unbound pain like a little girl, crying and sniffling with tears invading my nose, flowing inward into my throat. And between sobs, sometimes I remember childhood, and relive its smells and wriggling sensations, which refuse to distinguish pain from ease, memories remaining forever new. Then, suddenly, I feel an immense hiccuped joy.
©Marie Veronika Zorn
#writing #poetry #prose #prosepoem @ellowrites @ellopoetry @apoem_4u