I didn’t ask for the leaves to dry,
Though the red of maples sparkled in my eyes.
Nor did I ask the clouds to cry,
Though the golden morning dew was streaming down my face.
I never wanted the fog to walk beside me,
Though I felt the ghosts’ tight embrace.
I never hummed for the birds to sleep,
Even though I knew those songs tired them.
In my heart, a black chest has always held my prayers.
Seven keys opened it. Seven broken keys.
What came out was silence. If silence is anything.
A silence that made me sleep, but that scared me.
It made me sleep because the blood and rust on my fingers nauseated me.
It scared me because the barbed wire was crying out for me to scream.
And there was only silence.
An sick silence.
A silence where leaves and drops fell.
Where whistles and chants sounded melancholy.
A silence full and empty of requests.
I’ve never asked for such a dark chest either.
But that’s what was left.
And I think, in the end, silence was his cry.
A necessary cry, the simplest of requests:
Read the original poem here.