Via Dolorosa

Via Dolorosa


Angels or demons
Demons— must it be
Had a place in my head
They build it;
Stone by stone
To atone—they said.
Far behind the prayers and the olive trees
Hidden in burdens and tears.
The House of the Madness they called it.

I look upon its hideous wall: a mural for the sick
Not a foothold.
Not a prayer.
Voices I hear, crumbles at the wall
(Silence the mad, only then you will be glad—
Climb the path of sorrows by morrow)

My flesh is weak, I pray
My head’s a wreck, I say
Lunatics and mad broke the wall
Spirit-wolf—I clamber.
Out of the shadow of trees
Head out of east.

Thrown, a hundred,
Stoned, a hundred more.
Engulfed in mires,
Skin burned of fires.

A crown of thrones
For the times I have been thrown.
A top of mud! A top of mud!
At last!

Mother, Goddess,
Out of your womb, pure pearls of water drops,
I saw light.
Let me see darkness again. I pray.
For they are killing me—
Feeding me galls for my hunger;
And acid for my thirst
A first, a second and a third—
I prayed while they mocked me.
I am among the mad—

A kiss of a disciple:
I’m bound. Carried above the house of the mad.
They sat a fire
A mirage is all I see—
Voices of those before I
Stood before my eye:
I saw the victims, the poor, the sad ones
All—before I.

Mother, Goddess,
Save me.
Flames are coming up to my chest
I hear thy voice not
Only the mad.
The mad and the lunatics.
Where are thou?

Hadn’t thy breast suckled me,
Darkness and empty I would’ve been—
Hadn’t thy hands carried me,
A part of the earth I would’ve been.
Mother of Goddess,
Let it end. Burry me in mud and ashes.

A mirage is all I see—
Then comes the darkness of the whiteness.
Not a foothold, not a soul.
Doves’ voices erasing the mad’s chaos,
Water washing my burns, my sins
I never dreamt that I could dream
A washed body towards the stream
It is the final sphere
I am. I am.
Anew. Complete. Ready—
To sin again.

Alone in the white, doves and swans
I came before I was due;
I swam not in the stream for I was sinking.
Swans swimming, birds signing.
I flew. Out. Under.

Third day after the rise,
I still hear the voices of the victims, the poor, the sad ones and mine.
Only now I know;
How to mute my abandoned echoes.

Swans swam, doves molted me feathers
It’s all been forgiven:
Not a sound, not a whisper
Writing the madness is how I whimper.

Via Dolorosa Notebook art I

Other posts..

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *