992
Obunachilar
+224 soatlar
-17 kunlar
-930 kunlar
Postlar arxiv
A Symphony in Pale Ash
A.R.ABDULLAH
I was born beneath a broken bell that would not ring,
A tiny throat of water meant to drown before it learned to sing.
The swaddling clothes were spun of glass, the cradle carved of frost,
And every cradle-lullaby was whispered by the lost.
Oh, childhood was a cello with a solitary string,
A mournful, weeping minor note that clung to everything.
I watched the other children dance in pools of golden sun,
While my quiet, ghost-bound melody had only just begun.
I tried to hum of summer, tried to force the light to grow,
I bled my marrow to the dirt to make a garden blow.
I reached for peace like drowning men reach upward for the air,
And built a temple out of grief and painted over care.
Love passed me like a phantom ship across a quiet sea,
It sang a chord of tender warmth, but never stopped for me.
My youth became a choir where the singers had no breath,
A slow, ascending crescendo that harmonized with death.
And though I stretched my branches up to scrape against the sky,
To learn the art of blooming while the roots beneath me die,
The silence was a conductor that I could not out-maneuver,
A patient, heavy undertow that claimed its late improver.
Now the violin is splintered and the final movement fades,
A solitary violin played softly through the shades.
I clawed my way toward the light, I grew through all the pain,
Only to die in the center of the dark and falling rain.
idk If i say should this here but
I am sad and lonely more than i can admit
Ive always been like that
And its starting be really hard to ignore
I used to be good at hiding it but not anymore i guess.
Traveling raven
A.R.ANDULLAH
There was a raven
who never learned the meaning of home.
He was born beneath a black tree
in a country of rain,
where the wind spoke in a language
only the lonely understood.
His mother taught him the shape of the sky.
His father taught him to leave.
So he left.
He crossed the mountains
where winter kept its old grief,
flew over villages glowing like embers,
over fields where the wheat bent
as though praying to something unseen.
Everywhere he went,
he carried a little darkness with him,
not the darkness of death,
but the kind that lives
inside beautiful things.
The darkness of an empty chair.
Of a house after everyone has gone.
Of a letter never answered.
Of a childhood that cannot be returned to
no matter how gently you remember it.
At night,
he slept beneath foreign moons.
And sometimes he dreamed
of a small nest in a forgotten tree,
of warm feathers pressed against his own,
of a voice calling him home.
But when he woke,
there was only the wind.
So he followed it.
Across deserts where the stars
seemed close enough to touch,
across seas black as ink,
across cities humming beneath the rain.
He learned that every place
has its own kind of loneliness.
In the north,
loneliness was snow.
In the south,
it was heat.
In the cities,
it wore perfume
and walked among thousands.
In the forests,
it had no name at all.
And the raven began to understand
that perhaps loneliness
was not the absence of being loved,
perhaps it was the distance
between who we were
and who we were becoming.
Years gathered beneath his wings.
He lost feathers.
He lost friends.
He lost the certainty
that there was anywhere worth returning to.
Yet every morning
he rose again.
Because something in him
still believed the horizon
was not an ending.
One autumn evening,
he reached the edge of the world
or what looked like it.
A sea beneath a dying sun.
The sky burning gold and violet.
Clouds drifting like old memories.
He landed on a stone
and looked back.
Behind him were thousands of miles.
Every mountain he had feared.
Every storm he had survived.
Every window he had watched glowing
while someone inside laughed.
And suddenly he realized
he had spent his whole life
searching for a place
that could forgive him
for leaving.
But the earth had never been angry.
The trees had never asked him to stay.
The roads had never blamed him for going.
The sky had simply kept opening.
Again.
And again.
And again.
The raven lifted his wings.
For a moment,
he felt the unbearable weight
of every life he had not lived.
Then the wind came.
Softly.
Like a hand upon his back.
And he flew.
Not because he had found home,
but because he finally understood
that some souls are not made
to belong to one horizon.
Some souls are made
to become the horizon—
always distant,
always changing,
always carrying the memory
of every place they have loved.
And somewhere beyond the last mountain,
beneath a moon that had watched him
since he was young,
the raven disappeared into the night.
Not lost.
Not found.
Only becoming.
Like all of us.
The Bone-Loom and the Cedar Sky
A.R.ABDULLAH
The wet earth breathes a hymn of loam and thread,
Where wild moss cushions where the forgotten tread.
I press my ear against the birch-bark seam,
To pull the marrow from a waking dream.
A sudden swallow cuts the violet air,
The sky is open and completely bare.
I drink the river from a folded leaf,
And feel a strange, sweet loosening of grief.
The pine-pulp whispers what the roots all know:
How deep the silence before the hemlocks grow,
How stone turns gold beneath a sudden light,
How quiet wings can carry all the night.
I am the cedar, I am the cold grey silt,
I am the house that moss and lichen built.
No heavy lock, no iron chain or key,
Just green-dark woods drinking the rest of me.
The House That Time Became
A.R.ABDULLAH
I used to think the road went somewhere,
that every little leaving meant there,
but years are rivers, quiet and wide,
they carry the child we were inside.
I remember the window, yellow with rain,
the old wooden floor and its beautiful stain,
the moon like a coin in the midnight blue,
and all of the dreams I believed would come true.
There were mornings that smelled like bread,
and songs that lived softly inside my head,
a bird on the wire, a cup on the chair,
the whole world asleep, but I was still there.
I thought growing meant learning to fly,
to gather my courage and reach for the sky,
but maybe it means, when the bright things depart,
learning to carry their light in your heart.
And people will leave like leaves from a tree,
not always from sorrow, not always from me.
Some loves are a season, some homes are a year,
some names become echoes you still want to hear.
I've learned that the heart is a strange little room,
it keeps things that died, yet it still makes them bloom.
It plants old summers beneath winter snow,
and somehow remembers what time tells it: go.
So I go.
Not because I am finished with yesterday's rain,
not because I've forgotten the sweetness and pain,
but because every ending, however it bends,
is a door wearing darkness, pretending it ends.
And sometimes at night, when the whole world is still,
I dream of the boy on the old windowsill,
his hands full of stars, his pockets of stone,
believing that someday he'd find his way home.
I want to tell him, you don't have to run.
The moon doesn't hurry to become the sun.
The tree doesn't question the shape of its leaves,
and the river lets go of the things that it grieves.
You will lose things.
You will change names.
You will outgrow rooms
and still miss their frames.
You will become someone
your younger heart knows,
like a house seen from far
through the wintering snow.
And maybe that's living,
not winning, not knowing,
but planting a garden
and watching it growing;
then sitting beneath it
when you're old and gray,
with dirt on your fingers
and dusk in the day,
and smiling because
you once wanted the sky,
but found something softer
was passing you by:
a small patch of sunlight,
a bird's evening song,
a hand you once held
when the whole world felt wrong,
a cup left beside you,
a door left ajar,
the quiet realization
that you already are
somewhere you dreamed of,
though nothing is grand,
just older, still breathing,
with earth in your hands.
And if I could go backward,
I wouldn't undo
the sorrow that shaped me,
the skies I outgrew.
I'd thank every goodbye
that taught me to stay,
every dream that grew distant,
then changed me its way.
For time isn't a thief
if we learn how to see,
it only turns what was
into what we can be.
So let the old houses
fall into the light.
Let childhood grow quiet.
Let morning be night.
Let dreams change their colors.
Let rivers run free.
Let who I was yesterday
sleep peacefully.
And tomorrow, perhaps,
when the first sparrows sing,
I'll open the window
and welcome the spring.
Not as who I was,
not as who I should be,
but simply a person
still learning to see
that life is not somewhere
we finally arrive.
It's the road under moonlight.
It's being alive.
💌 وصلتك رسالة جديدة
⏱ وقت الرسالة: 2026/08/15 - 05:02:15 AM
----
The art is already there, before us (the humans) yet we were created to create as well
They're both connected to each other
Human itself is an art
----
- تبرع لإستمرار عمل بوت صارحني 🎁
💌 وصلتك رسالة جديدة
⏱ وقت الرسالة: 2026/08/15 - 04:16:07 AM
----
Both, we create art because we are human, and that art makes us more human cause it nourishes our souls i believe that humans seek nourishment for the soul, just as they seek it in food and when they get it they becomes more humane
----
- تبرع لإستمرار عمل بوت صارحني 🎁
