Some sorrows don't lament
they simply linger within us,
like a mother's woolen sweater
preserved in an old trunk,
in which her body odor still gently lingers
They don't ask questions,
nor seek answers, they simply
rest on our eyelids like a thin layer of sunlight; where no one can see,
but we feel their warmth every day
Sometimes it feels like sorrow
lives within us like some nameless deity
silent, patient, present in every heartbeat
like a mute memory.
Sometimes, grief is like unfulfilled love like the memory of a withered flower,
which we have sealed away like time between the pages of a book
so that it may remain fragrant forever
Some griefs are like mothers
they only know how to give,
without saying a word, without ceasing
And when we break down,
they sit at our bedside in the deep silence of the night, like an alliteration, flowing like a lullaby
