A Prose Poem
Still on Earth
There are delusional instances, like that of a soulful flower and that of a spiritless child.
Violeta de oreja!
Who is saying my name?
[ Me — the golden-voiced child.
My dear whisper,
In which dream we both live?
(The breeze is falling silent and birds are gazing at me from their lofty nests; oh, wretched little being, if I had possessed at least the flights of those graceful creatures...)
Is forlornness a grace?
My child demands to be told.
As her sight pierces my vegetative state, I twist the leaves
[ gently, lovingly, silently (…)
(Is this love also a gift? I would have asked, in turn, to my cherished heart.)
I am not sure about what to put my trust in, violeta de oreja. I lose faith. I let go of any idea because it tears me apart as soon as I consider it; as soon as I decide to believe in it. I wish I could to picture myself as something else, do you get it? I know you do. Everything about you tells me so. In your stillness is all my hope. Hence I always come back to you.
I do not mean to be found!
She breathes her golden voice closer to the one I do not have.
(A bird is descending
[ and so a spirit is reaching up;
The bird is digging between the stones
[ and so she is bearing.)
Her soul is staring at me above the pillows.
Wicked! She imagines me; oh, she invents beings!
Where is she? [Who?
Alas, she’s still on earth — hers or the bird’s?
© Diana Dolea (2024 All Rights Reserved)
‘At this moment I am so eager to lie in Elizabeth von Arnim’s garden and let myself be bared by the lilac trees. Do we sensitive souls require that much?’ — an excerpt from ‘aridity of the sight reading’
