My bleeding fingers scratch the entrails of this beating heart.
Dripping, the droplets fall like Persephone's trapā
A whole season in hell, a whole season in paradise.
The cave is closed, and I don't feel I can ever come out.
The seeds were scratched, my fingers are numb.
The fruit was ripped open, nothing left of its insides.
My hands remember each hysterical attempt
To stanch the open wound that was killing me.
But I am still here, in the dark and in despair.
I am still here inside the closed cave with no spring waiting for me,
Listening to the song of pomegranates
That sing of an open wound that bled in the middle of the night.
Any attempt to wash my hands of the vermilion stains will cause me the embarrassment
One thousand years I approach the water
Like the gentle Radha thinking about Krishna,
With the strength of her devotion.
I bleed and I wait in the dark, where it all began
And where it all should end as well.
Dripping, my fingers move in the darkness,
Playing the saddest modes
Of a song once heard in the East,
Where I left the one I loved.
Where my heart also remained.
And now my body lies like a corpse,
Waiting to be filled with a soul,
So one day I can clean up the stains
That marked the crime I committed
When I tore my own heart apart.
I often write in the middle of the night to take condensed feelings out of my chest. I can't say I actually like this, but I am currently very into pomegranates, these crazy little fruits, so I decided to make an art for it and post it anyway. āØ
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