The East Wind

It is a tale of a different time, in depth of clocks.

A tale that began on an agonizing day, an agonizing day in a cold month.

In this moment, on this day, on this night, from my voice born of smoke, a memory will born, perhaps in the muddy pulp of shattered trees and stagnant water, dressed in ink, dry and inconclusive words, etched on decayed paper, paper scarred with yellow.

Against my soul, in the dark, eternally bound by blood, there lay my brother, surrounded in depths of realm of death.

Forgotten silence, shaken hearts, harsh shadow, broken fragrance, paler touch.

Eyes filled with frost, absent pride.

The East wind drifting into south, taking with it defenseless dreams.

My little one, my dear brother, in heaven, somewhere safe, I know. If I could I would burn the whole world, even if it gets me anywhere close, my little one.

I was a naive one too, full of dreams, full of life, not knowing the absolute truth, our lives are built to be destroyed.

My little one,

When you wrapped your hand around my finger,

The Strom that brewed in my heart receded,

Things that I did not knew, a tangle of contradictions, all of them, splitting the night, they became comfortable.

Your little words used to pierce the eternity of agony and emptiness, my mantle of self-doubt.

I could only pray you’ll never be alone,

The shadow of the nameless will always surround you.

Dear brother, please forgive me, like soldiers eternally damned, I’ll struggle too, reincarnating, reliving my depleted greatness, my coldest memories.

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