Here I lie,

thoughtful, uninspired

paying my price

for peace:

an ounce of goosebumps;

a gram of cold, dizzy writing fingers.

Peace,

what an odd word,

I realise

while reading of Rothko’s colours

piercing the skin of happiness and death,

as I lie on the thin March grass –

an alabaster companion,

You,

right by my side.

I can see

my odd shape

in turquoise, black and blue

reflected on you.

You were just an object,

hours ago,

now I step closer

and read your names

on your opalescent,

slumbering surface,

oil black.

The irony! Oh, life, the irony…

You spend your whole life

with your nails digging

in mother earth’s lap

and death claims you

when you dare

putting your chin up,

soaring, gleaming in the sky.

Like Anthaeus, proud hero,

You were bound to earth –

never to be lifted.

The irony…

Now your names are carved

on a stone as black

as your gold used to be.

“The 1st of April…”

“This morning, isn’t it?”

I overhear voices

of people you used to call sister, and brother,

and wife and mother.

Little did I know

when I sat next to you,

what story you carried.

The irony, oh dear life…

The sound that just startled me

has opened my eyes:

you, made of marble and blood,

are witness to the flight

of a thousand blackbirds.

And planes,

not too far

from your blackened doorstep,

where a granit airport lies.

And your grass, every day, shaken

by the roaring sound of

“tomorrow

never

knows.”