How does one put words to something barely understood, something that grasped for in the night slides away, sidles into shadows and melts into the darkness? That grief, wholly internal and almost juvenile, that pulls at happiness, self-esteem, confidence and peace. “No man cries like that” – and no man does. No. It is the sorrow of a child, never comforted, never acknowledged, never healed.
It is the silent wailing in the night. It is the dung that reeks, but is warm and provides a beggar’s comfort. It is the slap, the punch, that burns but signals attention – an arid deluge in a thirsty desert.
It is the wounded soul who curls, fetus like, in the dark place where words cannot reach. It is a god’s agony in a child’s heart in a man’s body. It is the velvet razor.
It cuts, soft and dark and sweet in its familiarity, never letting the wound close. Blood drips like tears. Tears drop like rain; thunderstorm and hurricane and tornado rolled into one.
It is the cry of the forgotten; the never known; the unseen.
Even spattered so, with simile and metaphor, there is only the merest suggestion of shape; invisible; elusive. Perhaps it is mystery which gives it its power. How can one understand something that can’t be put into words?
It is the sacrifice, one for another, the daily cross; death for life, or death into life, it is hard to be sure.
It is tears, petal soft and warm as blood, unchecked, eternal, as deep and salty as the sea.