Look at my past; the walls grow taller.
I see a broken heart. Why?
Is that the sound of a small caged dove singing into the stifled air?
The cold of winter swirls around.
Many steps are taken through piles of snow.
There is a masque, open, with painted whitewashed walls, connected to the small well below its stone steps.
I hear. I still hear my mother behind me: 'Look for the path with softer steps.' Why is it too close? Why can I hear the clashing sound of a butcher's knife on the fresh skin of a baby lamb?
Rescue my thoughts! I shout! Was my birthplace a sanctuary, or do I imagine it with my softer, childish heart?!
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Author:
Shahla Latifi (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: December 15th, 2025 14:24
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 19
Offline)
Comments2
This is powerful, thank you for sharing
Thank you, Megan. Wishing you a joyful holiday season.
Dark are the sounds of the innards of this poem. It bleeds blood of the innocent and cries out of the darkness. A butchered lamb and an abandoned child on a cold stone doorstep come to mind. Well written
Thank you so much for your insightful comment.
You are most welcome
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