Ekphrasis: клетка

Thorned and blessed sound the same on my tongue

To me, both are a balm to the shattered keratin of my toes

Both are as certain of something as my fray-scattered nerves can be.

It translates to “Stairwell”

or “Cage”

In equal measure.

But it makes no difference.

I think my brothers in the Gunpowder hills

Forget that despair is the same word

In every language.

There is nothing for us,

Beyond the eastern chill.

We are each of us a nation,

A fortress, and

Alone. 

There is no more sublime a nightmare.