A String

Perhaps it wasn't her fault (her desires
and hopes locked in the cupboard). Maybe
she had
something to say
and couldn't say it. Suppose
she wasn't allowed 
to speak, found it hard

to speak clearly (there were two wars: one
going on in the outer world, the other one - totally inside).

Life broke her heart.

Those days it was forbidden to see things. 

She may have walked the nearby
woods throughout her time. She may
have screamed in the dark heart 
of hearts (the only thing surrounding 
her - eternal night). Maybe, originally,

she was not that weak. Suppose
she was powerful, and lost it all
bead by bead, year after year. Perhaps

losing her mind was the only
thing accessible, her way out 
of the world
given to her, straight 
into the labirynth
of her brain (or was it
a maze). Perhaps she loved

(her love: a fire inside a stove)
until she burnt every loaf of bread.

She might have given up. Perhaps she 
died before she really died. 

I could have judged her
wandering off, too far
to ever return. Instead,

I walked 
all the way back, 

and picked

each bead

and put them all
onto the string.

This string of pearls,
worn out by time 

now takes its rest
inside the bowl
of jewelry I keep on top
of my chest
of drawers

(what really happens
in between
the life and death
is closed: the sandgrains
in a pile of clams).

I sometimes
wear
these pearls.

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