Tag: Writing

How to Love

On its expected seventh birthday, the child received its wanted gift:
A flower—pansy, still so little—the child’s utmost beloved wish.
“Take care of it, my sweet young daughter,” advised the mother carefully,
“It’s yours to look after. Be careful, this flower’s your responsibility.” 

“I will, I will,” promised the child, admiring it with gleaming eyes.
“You have to water it,” she added, “to give it love, or else it’ll die.”
“Don’t worry, mother, I will do so,” said she and took the plant away,
Brought it outside to give it sunshine without any further delay. 

When nightfall came, her mother called her: “Elisa, you must come inside!”
She quickly headed back—the flower: forgotten till the sun would rise.
As morning came, she saw the pansy—shivering after autumn winds.
Full of regret, she took it gently and hurried back to her room’s warmth. 

She put it on her wooden nightstand, away from windows, from the sun
And soon enough the tiny flower started to quiver on the ground.
The second day, Elisa noticed the suffering that she had caused
And hurriedly placed it at the window—and soon enough, the flower rose. 

Now satisfied she’d done her duty, she scurried off to play outside,
As sunlight bathed the small being until it bowed down due to thirst.
She suffered till the night embraced it and gave away its one last breath,
Alone, in pain; only the moonlight caressed its shape—absorbed by death. 

Too late arrived the careless child: “Oh no! I forgot to water it!”
She cried out loud and quickly brought some water to pour over it.
She poured and poured in endless efforts to bring it back again to life,
She kissed its now colourless petals; she sang to it the entire night. 

When morning came, she called her mother and told her of her grave mistake.
“My child, oh, I wish you’d listened… Now see what comes with negligence…
Too late you’ve given it attention, too late you’ve given it your love…
You see, when love comes when it’s too late, it’s all in vain—this you’ve now learned… 

From this mistake, there is a lesson which you can take with you in life:
Offer your love in equal gestures and offer it when it is time!
For when you love only on the surface, the suffering grows cruel, deep roots,
And when you deeply love—but too late, the harm’s been done and absolute…”

– Patricia

The Stranger—Not of This Time

On a starry night, the stranger
Travelled through the sleeping land.
People, cattle—all forever
Seemed forgotten, in a trance.

He had come to Earth to venture
In the darkest of the nights,
Seeking something—an adventure?
No, his quest was more than that.

He had come from times of future
To fix something in the past.
His mistake? Or someone else’s?
Maybe both. And make peace last.

Following the constellations,
Which showed him the sacred path,
He was but a lonesome shadow,
Silhouette of clay and dust.

He rode quickly through the valleys—
Sunlight was his nemesis.
Time was passing, every second
Proved to be his enemy.

No one knew the thoughts he carried,
No one saw his inner fight,
Nor what he would have to battle
Soon enough: soldiers of dark.

Knowing future, past and present,
Change was his ultimate wish.
Inner strength, determination:
He would never know defeat.

He rode quickly—stars shone brightly,
Leading him towards his fate.
He would fight and end the nightmare,
Before dawn would be his death.

– Patricia

Reckless Spirit

The valley was peaceful as sunlight descended,
As the liquid fire retreated behind mountains.
The forests showed dances of suffocating nightfall,
As the day disappeared, as shadows were wedded.

The shepherds returned home, the animals followed,
The sheep with their sweet lambs, the goats with their goatlings,
They entered the sheepfold as darkness came closer,
At home and in safety. Wolves started to howl.

Up there, in the mountains, they came out, they gathered,
Their cold, yellow eyes—so glassy, so famished—
Like death shone in darkness, evil and awaiting
Naive little beings to venture in the mountains.

Back home in the valley, where warmth and hay waited,
The fold was their shelter and all that they wanted.
Or was it? Unequalled? For one of them wanted
The grass in the mountains; the hay’s taste it hated.

She wanted the green grass, so fresh, full of colour;
The dry, tasteless hay which lay there—unappealing.
She longed for the freedom she had in the mountains,
Up there with the blue sky, the sun and the crickets.

Young, reckless, determined, the goat then decided
To leave all the others, the warmth and the shelter.
She wanted to run wild, away from the others,
And under the night stars, with the tempting path—lighted.

In vain tried the others to warn her: “The howling!
Can you not hear all the wolves that are out there?
Stay here, oh, young child! And wait for the sunrise!
The shepherds will come when it’s time, so be patient!”

“The taste of the green grass is, oh, so, so tempting!”
Responded the young goat, ignoring their wise words.
“I’ve made up my mind and I’m leaving this instant,
The wind and the freedom are calling me quickly.”

She jumped out her stable and ran towards the stall door,
She jumped yet again and then kicked down a batten.
The shepherds came quickly, hearing the loud noise,
But she was long gone, no matter how much they would call her.

She never looked back as she ran towards the forest,
The thrill of it all hiding the approaching cold, death glims.
She bleated, enjoying those moments of freedom
And suddenly came to a halt—she was breathless.

A pair of cold eyes was there lurking, just waiting
For her to get closer, to meet with the sharp teeth.
She suddenly knew she would never reach the grazing,
And now it was too late to run to the sheepfold.

She’d die in the forest—she knew what was coming.
The green grass she dreamt of would never be tasted.
But stubborn she was, so she swore she’d at least try
To fight him all night, till she’d see her last sunrise.

She lowered her head as the wolf then approached her,
Defending herself with her horns as he howled.
She was brave and determined, resisting his sharp claws,
His teeth and his cold stare—so dangerous, cruel.

She fought and she fought and at times she would quickly
Eat blades of the grass which they trampled on, wanting
Only one more ounce of strength—to keep fighting,
To last till the sunlight would trump over darkness.

Each time he got closer, his teeth leaving deep wounds,
Her cries would grow weaker, her spirit collapsing.
But she then fought harder—“It isn’t yet morning,”
She’d say to herself and then gather her lost strength.

Till finally sunlight appeared from the mountains.
“At last!” whispered she as she fell to the cold ground,
As the wolf towered over her defeated small body,
Howling in victory; his eyes—no more daunting.

And as the light from her eyes started dimming forever,
She looked at the sky, as her last hope appeared:
The sun, sending spears, rose high above darkness,
Bathing her being in triumphant, strong sunbeams…

– Patricia

Posterity

Painting with vibrant spirit and delight,
Oasis is the ever-living art.
Surreal moments, music, writing, dreams:
The legacy of those who’ve been redeemed.
Even if time won’t spare their mortal souls,
Regardless of what they’ve achieved on Earth,
Infinity awaits creators of this world:
Through masterpieces they will all live on,
Yesterday: here, tomorrow: never gone.

– Patricia

Ephemerality

Eager to leave a trace behind on Earth,
Pharaohs and emperors, conquests, battles and wars.
Humans all try to leave their mark within this world:
Enticing paintings, stories to be told.
Music which purifies the burdened souls,
Ending the pain of being only mould.
Ruins of ancient works which fade away,
All memories of once glorious days,
Long gone and never to be seen again,
In passing winds becoming only clay.
They come and go—only a passing breath,
Yesterday: here, tomorrow: certain death.

– Patricia

The Storyteller

He travelled the Earth in his search for delight,
Observing the people as they tried to decide
What path would be better to lead them in life,
What fate to create for themselves under the sunlight. ǀ Fine

He carried his satchel, for that’s all he had,
As he gathered stories, travelling far.
He heard all their burdens and saw all the tears,
And took them with him as he travelled the seas.

He saw their warm smiles in moments of joy;
Their strong, joyous laughter which lit up the room.
He carried their stories to others like them,
To others so different who could understand.

Their dances, their struggles, their days in the rain,
Their castles, their cattle, their crops for the day.
At night by the fire, when songs would be sung,
The burdens—forgotten when under the stars.

Their moments together, their moments apart,
Their fights and their quarrels, their fears, their love.
These raw, unique glimpses inside their short lives
He captured and carried with him—in his heart.

He told them to others—it brought him pure joy,
For he felt alive through them, their spirit he loved.
He captured their magic and spread it around,
To bring joy to others—like the one he had found.

New people, new stories, new times which would come:
He’d meet with the magic they brought—one by one.
He travelled and listened, he travelled and told
The stories of those who were put on this Earth.

Da Capo al Fine

– Patricia

The Stranger—Not of This World

He watched the golden sunset, the light in all its might.
Oh, he wanted to touch it, for it brought him delight.
It gave him hope; he smiled, rejoicing in its warmth,
And he could find the power to face the world alone.

He breathed in the silence and melodies were born
Inside his strengthened spirit, each of them taking turns
At bringing out the colours which rested deep within,
Allowing him to smile—so peaceful, so serene!

He watched as amber spears descended towards the sea,
The seagulls—melancholic, the waves—unapologetically free.
Only the golden traces which now painted the sky
Were proof of what had happened—of worlds which unify.

He closed his eyes and waited—the sound of crashing waves—
The touch of reigning moonlight caressed his peaceful face.
He smiled as he felt it—the sunlight was enough;
Walking away from freedom, he ventured in the night.

– Patricia

Chasing the Sun

We chased the autumn sun we knew,
Wishing that we could start anew.
But nightfall came, gone was the light;
Hard as we’d tried, we’d lost the fight.

We wanted warmth, unending love,
Yet there we were; the pure dove
Had turned into a raven—dark,
With claws we could not disregard.

It was the sunset of our bliss,
Not just a passing, short eclipse.
Our youth—no more, our strength—long gone,
Only the wind would hear our cries.

We’d had it all—or so it seemed;
The strength, the beauty, youth—all myths.
Our souls were all that we still had,
But soon enough: absorbed by dark.

We chased our final ray of hope,
As it was all we’d ever sought.
We thought we’d grasp just one more day,
Yet there we were: no more than clay.

We stopped in place and looked around,
Thus, understanding we were bound
To reach this day: our end had come.
In pilgrim winds, we came undone…

– Patricia

Freedom at Sea

WhatsApp Image 2019-02-28 at 21.11.13

I’ve had the dream a thousand times,
It goes like this: I’m near the sea,
I’m on the sand, open my eyes
And hear the waves just calling me. ǀ Fine

A transformation then occurs:
Metamorphosis of the soul.
The sea defines and also blurs
The lines of who I am and was.

My heart beats faster, breaks the cage,
Growing and thus setting me free.
It’s here, it’s now, no more delays,
No tightened strings controlling me.

So, I forget the life I had,
There’s no one else to hold me back.
Just what I love awaits ahead,
Beauty and nature, day and night.

I start my dance on waves of blue,
Their lacey white giving me hope.
I’m free at last, I’ve found my truth
Among the sea foam and the salt.

I’m one with water, with the sky,
I venture in their kingdom’s heart,
As seagulls give out welcoming cries;
I feel at home in this work of art.

I fly, I soar, I dance, I waltz,
So happy, free! Ecstatic, free!
I’m there until the crack of dawn,
Until nightfall—felicity.

I wish the dream went on and on,
But I wake up as moonlight bathes
My soul—and I return to my own world,
The sea—so far, the night—so late.

And I resume my passing life,
But I go back when moonlight calls,
When crashing waves await my touch,
When secret worlds once more unfold.

Da Capo al Fine

– Patricia