I send forth soft touch,
Hoping to heal the damage,
Done by another,
In another time.
I dash against a hard soul,
Feel the dull edge of rock,
Rip rough gashes,
And gouge me deep.
Tear the tender fabric
Of my heart.
I retreat, bleeding,
Sorrow filling my soul
So full that I stagger,
Leaving a smeared trail
Of lost hope.
I slowly stand straight,
Anger rising,
And view the drying outline
Of the trail.
Like the ice cold barrel of a gun
Pressed to my breast
Hatred freezes me.
I stop.
The target is on my own heart,
And the finger on the trigger
Is my own.
And then I see,
That I am needed again.
Not wanted, only needed.
I feel compassion, detestable,
Well up within me.
And I return.
I send forth soft touch,
Knowing full well,
How perfectly the dull-edged rocks
Match the scars on my heart.
There is no justice.
There is no 'fair.'
There is only the return.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Love and pain along the ways of life. Nice work.