The griefs don't stop us,
but they also don't let us go.
They remain within as a feeling
like a neem tree growing in barren land,
whose shade is not harsh,
just slightly moist.
When grief deepens, it no longer hurts
it becomes the forgotten language of love,
which has no letters
only the warmth of those palms,
which are no longer there,
But which rest on my shoulder every time I close my eyes.
Whether someone sees or not, the experience of existence
does not depend on sight.
The sun sets in the context of dusk,
silent, calm as if this setting
is not an end, but a call to a new world.
Remainder? Or a beginning?
And then, slowly, I understand
that grief never goes away
It remains imprinted in my heart,
sometimes as a mother,
sometimes as love,
sometimes as a poem
