The one who claimed,
The one who named
A special curtain to be placed
Upon the dark of the past,
Still upon the woes of a woman’s heart,
Still hearing the echoes
That loosen themselves from a slender tongue,
Repeating of sadness,
Releasing of madness.
For one quarter of a century
Upon the roses,
As your eyes merely saw the red of thorns,
Never that of the petals
Meant to swarm your faraway mind.
Of repeated tragedy.
I long for days
With mere matrimony,
Without the judgement of a religion
That places rules in the way of boundless love.
I wish for the windmill to cease
Rotation in the gestures of agitation.
Winds that catch sparks
Should not power tomorrow.
Love holds a red hand
Covered by the blood of boiled defeat,
As she is raised to the height of Heaven,
The height of love.