The Tempest and its Dwellers
What can you do for strength
when your reservoir is dried up?
When the thirst maddening and
weakness is wrapping its tentacles
around your heart?
How can you stop the sands of your
life from slipping through your hands?
When your soul becomes a barren desert?
What can you do for protection from
fear, which strikes like a cobra
injecting poisonous doubt into your
bloodstream; leaving a trail of unimaginable
sorrow and pain?
When all you have left is the
struggled breath in your lungs
and a broken heart that’s about to flatline,
when there is no warmth except a
scorching sun and your hands
are raw from fighting how can you grasp hope?
The last breath of ragged air.
The last beat of a broken heart.
The final piece of a shattered will.
How can one rebuild the empire
of the soul under such sorrow?
† Creidim i ngrá liom fiú nuair nach mbraitheann sé
I feel it not
(But its there…)
Where?
(It is in your last breath and the one after that,
That last beat of your broken heart,
and in that final piece of shattered will.)
A tempest builds—
fusing the broken pieces and boiling my blood.
Wind lifts the broken body and cradles it
as it whispers softly:
Tomorrow my love, your heart will become whole
and your soul will reawaken.
† I believe in love even when I feel it not
