Anathema

She died. And I decided to bury her with my own hands in our own garden where I could always visit her.
So I planted her in the corner of the garden.
After a week I saw some sprout on her grave.
After a month some leaves,
But after a year there were fruits up there!
Whatever effort I made to pick them I couldn’t.
It was as if they were a part of the tree and stuck to it.
They were gray.
A hundred years passed.
The day I died there were lots of her around me.
Each of them was weeping many a tear and their whole intermingled sound caused me to feel a hole in my head.
I died though,
And I never saw her, saw them
Again…

Think of Me When the Butterfly Dances Around You

Somewhere in shadows we walk,
For if we walk in the dark, we feel cold
And if in warmth,
Light will blind us.
I feel your existence under my skin
Together we are free…

Chapter 50 of My Novel, Marsala

50

I don’t really know for what I’m living. I could certainly depict that all the ties which connected me to life have torn apart. What really matters in this is that I myself hate anything which connects me to life. So many things don’t have the mentioned value in the first place. And despite this knowledge I move on in vain. Last night I witnessed my birth in a pool where my mother and father and I were in, in different corners. My mother who doubted my being alive gave birth to me and I was freed in the water. I grasped the little baby while looking into my mother’s eyes with fear and confusion. She said she’s dead but I peeled the thin plastic-like cover around the baby and hung her upside down and hit slowly her back and after a cough she breathed deeply and slowly. My father told me she was dead too right after my mother. But she was alive and the only one who actually gave birth to me was me. How can you?

Chapter 50 of my unfinished novel, Marsala