In the sin of a woman scorned

I saw autumn's full color only in the henna leaves.
For one anxious sunflower I caught the flutter of sparrows.
Ashamed dark roses bloomed in the sin of a woman who scorned motherhood.


I remember kneeling in prayer after the first grain sprouted in the first rain.
Life finds fulfillment somewhere, somehow, and yet
that somewhere—where exactly it lies—not everyone discovers in one lifetime.
Those we know, almost all of them live out their days
in the scrambled memories of shadow and mist, in meaningless tears.


Even now they open their eyes each morning without hoping for a beautiful day.
None of their laughter returns, lost in the cold silence of some hidden wall.
Behind bright glasses, artificial hearts float in artificial joy, in artificial scenes.
Color tempts their eyes, and then they pay the price of friendship with unstoppable loneliness.