“Cela Doit Te Suffire”

Theo Kathleen
Aug 28, 2017 · 1 min read
credited photo: http://www.ionelhaloiu.com/files/products/_MG_6255.jpg

Pages swirling in the wind

From the window left unlatched

Just her lock of hair, now pinned

Remained atop the wood, untouched.

The old man sat in deep slumber,

As the sound of booming thunder

Was announcing the grey storm

That had left his notebook torn.

He slumbers for in dreams he meets

The one lost daughter that he seeks

To exchange one last good-bye,

Night after night, he shuts his eye,

And so he sleeps, meanwhile not knowing

Of the rage the storm was throwing,

Of the pages that were swaying

To the tune the wind was playing.

One white sheet was standing still,

On top of it there was a quill.

The old man’s hand was raising slowly

As if controlled by force unholy.

He grabs the quill and starts to scribble,

On the page the ink would trickle,

Leaving sharp marks on paper, deep

As the man wrote in his sleep.

Cold turned his breath to silver wisps,

Her name: Julia, left his lips.

)