Where are all the Michelangelos gone?
The Greek sculptures of glowing, exuberant, healthy men and women,
the blossoming and naivety of Renaissance paintings,
and the enchanting houses of fairy tales
that mother used to read to me as a child?
What good it was
to give so much
for little?
Why did I have to come this far?
Foolish, oh so very foolish of me.
I threw myself into the grave,
headfirst, willingly.
For me, Singing has always been a deep task. Emotional as well as physical. The fulfillment one experiences while on a high when singing, is scaringly similar to what happens during the sexual act. One feels abundance, glory, a vessel that has been fulfilled thanks to the right vibrations (and what is the sound of voice, if not vibration?).
Scared of writing,
of typing these keys
with trembling fingers,
still shattered
from the earthquake
that happened in my heart.
Would the fire burn me if I wasn’t able to feel pain? It surely would. I would gradually disappear, my body turned into ashes without a pinch of suffering. What a strange prospect.
It’s been a while
since we don’t gather all together.
Perhaps it’ll take some more.
In the company of the air I breathe
I remember the moments
of calmness by the fire
and the sittings by the sea,
all of us merging the souls and sharing the spirits.
There was glee in the simplicity, it was soul food.
But I can’t tell
whether this is past or future,
or even present.
