Talk to pain.
Sweet mother of whispers,
cradle this misfortune,
blanket me in sleep.
Wish me a better life,
reprieve me
into better thoughts,
beyond debris of failure.
When you awakened me
as an immature child,
deep in folded arms,
I recall those tears
I let go,
as I could not
let you go.
Have you understood me,
inside my newly formed womb
of a greater, older life?
You have caressed me, breathed out
comfort, into me.
Though a new life has been born,
as I have created it.
As often upon another evening drear,
I compare this current place
to an old one, to find
those same stars looking out for me,
never losing me.
In your eyes, without losing light,
I notice you in everything.
Have you noticed me,
even when I smile, without you holding me,
in an infant’s cradle, in your arms?
I understand
that when a mother grows old,
earns her grey in the temples,
her child becomes all care
she has deserved.
I misunderstand
what a mother will always give,
upon those cloudless days of warmth
where nothing can be without gratitude,
though I continue to weep.
This treasure I have,
your gift of me
to love with pounding hearts,
with a pool of sorrowful, joyful tears
watering our sacred garden.
Modern Romanticism 