Faces Of Our Hopes
© Surazeus
2018 03 12
The snow of the silent mountain that falls
in my hair knows why water reflects light
of watching eyes. Along the trail of tears
we left behind the faces of our hopes
carved from the trees that sing in the moonlight
stories of the dead who never return.
We are the ones who survived like white clouds
reflecting light of the setting sun. Lost
beyond the sky I sit and wonder why
what happens happens, random consequence
of unknown actions, or great drama planned
by the spirit of light who watches us
from his shining palace on the white sun.
I carried my dead daughter in my arms
for a thousand years while the frozen world
cracked from the anguish of my heart. I laid
the fragile nothing of her windy soul
among flowers that drank down my last tears.
How delicate the petals of red flowers
soft as her eyelids. I caress the dark
of infinite sorrow and know its face
better than the face of the little girl
I made with my body. I take her back
into the void of my heart where I designed
the laughter of her eyes, where I composed
the timbre of her voice that called my name
when she wanted to show me the white bird
hopping cutely by the river, where I
wove rainbows in the fiber of her hair
to bind her soul to the mountains and trees.
Sunlight beams from the glory of the sun,
becoming raindrops that soak in the soil
which bulges from seeds into stalks of corn
gold as the sun, for each kernel contains
beams of light that nourish our bodies. Light
becomes corn which becomes heat of our souls
so we are the light of the sun transformed
into eyes that dream plants sprouting from rain.
Yet the sweet soul of her body escaped
and flashed back to the eye of the blind sun
where she watches me. She watches me weep
at the memory of cute stories she told
about the owl that explains how the light
of stars becomes the drops of rain we drink.
She beams rays of light to warm my cold soul,
but I dissolve to become flakes of snow
that cover her body by the dead tree.
I leave my frozen heart buried in Earth
so my heart becomes the beat of the world,
causing it to spin far into the void
of my sorrow. I am become the snow
on the dirt of the trail that pulls me far
from the garden by the river of light
where my mother with hands warm as the soil
taught me how to sing riddles about things.
I care nothing about castles or kings
when I feel the flutter of white owl wings.
I am the resurrection of my daughter
as I walk away from her rotting corpse
along with faces hard as silent stones,
for we are stones walking into the sky,
and we are trees walking nowhere to find
names we lost, and we are rivers of eyes
walking down into the soil of the world
to become the pool who borrows my face
to look at the sky where the sun still shines
indifferent to my pain. I am my daughter
now because I vanished with flashing snow
swirling in carefree play. I am my daughter
who left the corpse of her mother in snow
to feed the flowers that sprout from my brain.
I am the daughter of the singing rain
who plants seeds from the corpse of my dead mother
to grow tomatoes, squashes, and cranberries
in my secret garden where her cracked skull
smiles at me when I talk to her blank eyes
and tell her I am not dead yet. She laughs
wind whistling in branches of tall oak trees
because I am nothing now but the breeze.
The snow flakes of the indifferent sky
freeze my heart into the mask of my face.
I look at my hands, red from digging soil,
and see the face of another young girl
who could be born from the laughter of wind
with my face, with the face of love I lost
on the trail of skulls. I stand on the shore
of the river that knows our secret names
and weave moonlight into thin silver thread
that sews the wounds of my heart into wings,
and there in the black void of flowing water
I see the faces of children unborn
whose joy will sprout like blossoms from fruit trees
when I give them life. I reach out my hand
and scoop water from the river of tears
to drink sweet hope that children of my heart
will wake and see the world with flashing eyes
of my mother who watches me all day
from the heavy stone of my aching heart.
I throw the stone of her face in the river
and turn around to see the face I name.
© Surazeus
2018 03 12
The snow of the silent mountain that falls
in my hair knows why water reflects light
of watching eyes. Along the trail of tears
we left behind the faces of our hopes
carved from the trees that sing in the moonlight
stories of the dead who never return.
We are the ones who survived like white clouds
reflecting light of the setting sun. Lost
beyond the sky I sit and wonder why
what happens happens, random consequence
of unknown actions, or great drama planned
by the spirit of light who watches us
from his shining palace on the white sun.
I carried my dead daughter in my arms
for a thousand years while the frozen world
cracked from the anguish of my heart. I laid
the fragile nothing of her windy soul
among flowers that drank down my last tears.
How delicate the petals of red flowers
soft as her eyelids. I caress the dark
of infinite sorrow and know its face
better than the face of the little girl
I made with my body. I take her back
into the void of my heart where I designed
the laughter of her eyes, where I composed
the timbre of her voice that called my name
when she wanted to show me the white bird
hopping cutely by the river, where I
wove rainbows in the fiber of her hair
to bind her soul to the mountains and trees.
Sunlight beams from the glory of the sun,
becoming raindrops that soak in the soil
which bulges from seeds into stalks of corn
gold as the sun, for each kernel contains
beams of light that nourish our bodies. Light
becomes corn which becomes heat of our souls
so we are the light of the sun transformed
into eyes that dream plants sprouting from rain.
Yet the sweet soul of her body escaped
and flashed back to the eye of the blind sun
where she watches me. She watches me weep
at the memory of cute stories she told
about the owl that explains how the light
of stars becomes the drops of rain we drink.
She beams rays of light to warm my cold soul,
but I dissolve to become flakes of snow
that cover her body by the dead tree.
I leave my frozen heart buried in Earth
so my heart becomes the beat of the world,
causing it to spin far into the void
of my sorrow. I am become the snow
on the dirt of the trail that pulls me far
from the garden by the river of light
where my mother with hands warm as the soil
taught me how to sing riddles about things.
I care nothing about castles or kings
when I feel the flutter of white owl wings.
I am the resurrection of my daughter
as I walk away from her rotting corpse
along with faces hard as silent stones,
for we are stones walking into the sky,
and we are trees walking nowhere to find
names we lost, and we are rivers of eyes
walking down into the soil of the world
to become the pool who borrows my face
to look at the sky where the sun still shines
indifferent to my pain. I am my daughter
now because I vanished with flashing snow
swirling in carefree play. I am my daughter
who left the corpse of her mother in snow
to feed the flowers that sprout from my brain.
I am the daughter of the singing rain
who plants seeds from the corpse of my dead mother
to grow tomatoes, squashes, and cranberries
in my secret garden where her cracked skull
smiles at me when I talk to her blank eyes
and tell her I am not dead yet. She laughs
wind whistling in branches of tall oak trees
because I am nothing now but the breeze.
The snow flakes of the indifferent sky
freeze my heart into the mask of my face.
I look at my hands, red from digging soil,
and see the face of another young girl
who could be born from the laughter of wind
with my face, with the face of love I lost
on the trail of skulls. I stand on the shore
of the river that knows our secret names
and weave moonlight into thin silver thread
that sews the wounds of my heart into wings,
and there in the black void of flowing water
I see the faces of children unborn
whose joy will sprout like blossoms from fruit trees
when I give them life. I reach out my hand
and scoop water from the river of tears
to drink sweet hope that children of my heart
will wake and see the world with flashing eyes
of my mother who watches me all day
from the heavy stone of my aching heart.
I throw the stone of her face in the river
and turn around to see the face I name.
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