She carved
her dreams
with the colour of blood,
across the coldness
of immovable walls.
She carved
her spell
of pains to come,
the legends
of desires
and accidental tears.
Her absent dance
with the heart of time
held tight
against her soul.
Unseen guitars
whirled crystals
across her naked shoulders,
and the Infinity,
every now and then,
held its breath
to wonder
if the mirror
were singing back to it.
The fear. The cry. The song.
The thirst
for wonders
that never were,
and for wounds
that bleed.
So that she could touch them all,
without words,
one by one.
Again
and again
and again.
So that,
one day,
the darkness
sown with stars
might go out,
torn apart
by the sudden cry
of a single
newborn word.
Eve.
The longing.
In the language
of light.
Adrift.