On man he spat his pliant words,
which dripped amidst the sky like wingless birds.
They pawed on earth like silent chords,
untuned, unsound, to fight unheard-of lords:
‘What a talent not fermented,
to allure the mind with thoughts suspended,
and to esteem the potent soul,
but incapacitate its purpose sole.
And lest my truth is forsaken,
then best in pledge gallantly betaken.
For all the kingdoms in their might,
might never suffice reason’s roaring plight.’
As I heard these words in silence,
leapt inside my mind to find its’ absence,
I rescued feathers of the dove,
my thoughts, which reminded me of my love;
Grey from the ashes of my dream,
my heart in sorrow and my whispers would scream.
I realised in disbelief,
it had been joy in the start and now grief.
And mourning in my tomb, I resent to have seen
the rain destroy the bloom; my unforgiving sin.
Because what had been free, was stolen in a night,
traded with the need to be, under the pressure of fright.