IN DIALOGUE
Memory distant,
of wings once burnt to ash,
to dust,
in winter’s grim conception.
I ask you: What ails you?
Who willed this?
No longer soaring,
lost in its own sacrifice.
Forget!
A heap of cinders,
a soul without a body—
a sign of change.
Dawn spent sleepless,
form of an angel!
Humbled.
You will never vanish.
Far, yet always near.
Another day…
By a moment, by centuries,
by life accursed…
Do you fear?
In silence I remain,
blackened by ash.
You will be born
when time itself whispers.
First, and yet still a hundred
hopes.
Why do you torment so?
You know, after all,
nothing truly happens.
Author: Veron
