In the end, there was a silence.
One by one I watched the petals fall,
soft and white against the flames.
Chaos all around me, but somehow
there was nothing inside me.
A numbness I welcomed.
After the pain had bloomed,
painting scarlet roses on my soul,
I was erased; all was white.
My substitute for peace.
I did not sleep: I drifted.
I am standing at the edge of a meadow.
It must be autumn; the leaves are falling.
A girl dances in the wind,
a halo of dying sunlight on her hair.
She dances in a waking dream,
for she knows nothing.
She is happy--she is singing.
I don't understand the words,
but it haunts me--it hurts me.
Do I wake or sleep?
The surface of the water shimmered,
and rays of light rained down on me,
but I held on to the fading fragments--
the last echoes of the voice,
the words I would never know.
Somehow in the darkness I clung to that girl,
believing in everything, and knowing nothing.
I would never return to myself.
I would dance in the meadow,
and forever hide from the flames,
between a memory and a dream.
I fade to silence. . . .
