The route of the teardrop

No one can see and understand anything in someone else that he has not experienced in himself.

Herman Hesse

Painting by Elzbieta Brozek

When she was lying there,

she could only think about Master Hilarion

and his green healing light.

Her open eyes dilated a bit when

her heart ran to embrace that wounded body

covered with cortisone dreams.

(and she doesn’t know what to do anymore

or where she should go to reap the right answers.

ifshecouldifshecould)

The sound deafened her a bit

as she scanned the moment

for a tomorrow, for a maybe.

It was a dizzy intravenous instant

of solitude and anguish.

(she is not thinking about herself,

she is thinking about lulling words,

protecting jasmines

and…

What to tell her when the scales speak?)

If she could change the route

of the teardrop for one second.

If she could.

(not for herself, never for herself

but flowers cry, but poetry dies,

but life scares us)

Somebody turns on the light, please.

She needs to write a poem,

and another, and another

now that she understands Hesse.

Karla Bardanza

Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2012