We yearn, but for what?
Now that the world is not ours.
Once all paths converged, and it was clear, predictable.
But a quake has hit our hearts, our foundations dismayed,
it is impossible to be. Time does not allow;
it harries, repeats like a carousel,
returns all we cast into the coals —
the rift of leaves beneath, the senselessness of stars above.
At night we talk of how things used to be.
Nostalgia is our medicine. But words can no longer soothe.
My soul aches and burns for something more.
Yet I cannot ask, cannot address this silence.
Where is the third who walks beside, hooded, resolute?
How do we choose our path? Now we’re restless
between the stream and the rock, but never nearing the salvation of either.
And tomorrow when they ask I will say:
all is well, all is well here.