My grief is the body of a battle's debris
It is the long stretch of remembrance,
It is the soft spell of heartbreaks,
In Flanders, in marshes, in poppy fields,
on a desolate hill, in a foreign territory.
It is the sound of church bells memorizing
Wedding choirs, baptisms, Marche funèbre.
Those mornings when the last breath of air
plants the sorrow of olive trees on my skin,
there is the sound of birds caught mid flight,
the flapping of their wings stuck somewhere
inside the dilemma of anger and empathy.
Those nights when the moon dreams in solaris,
rivers construct bridges between retina and pain,
they know the mind is bipolar, the heart is rain,
the wind chimes excavate music with disdain,
My grief is unpronounceable, life is fleeting,
Somewhere in the dirge, two souls are meeting.
© Jaspreet Mann. Unpronounceable. All Rights Reserved.
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