As soon as you trust yourself, you will know how to live. — Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

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To make a confession,
I have no poems proper.
I found words quite foolish.
For I have learned to look on nature,
Not as the hour of thoughtless youth,
But hearing oftentimes,
the still, sad music of humanity.

Misty autumn now filled before my eyes,
Harvesting fruits of some trivial dreams, 
Falling leaves halfway meet their homes,
ready for the next circle of shiny blooms.
But what’s the beauty in all these momentary goodness? 

Is it Hope? A glimpse of mirage carries itself through....
Oh, What a fool I had been to fall for Ms.Hope!
For inside that delicate web of Hope, lies nothing
but one’s unrealised fear and timidity,
vulnerability in its sheerest garment.

Hope brings pain. Faith brings blindness.
And who is there to smooth you?
Her breath dispirited with that last breeze of autumn,
Falling beneath withering leaves, languishingly golden.
Freed, at last, now I confess,
I am over both Ms.Hope and Mr.Faith.

Let the funeral rye burn me inside,
into dusts and ashes,
Let the waterfall wash me beside,
into marbles and minerals,
there,
I shall hear delightfully, when my dearest Truth sings,
She sings to one and all,
“the making of suffering”
That still, sad music of humanity....
I’m over Ms Hope

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Read Next: The Portrait Of A Woman

Read More: A Mighty Star

Posted by:Annabel

A Dancer, choreographer, A researcher who specializes in Religious Dance and Ritual Performance Study. My blog is the notepad of my consciousness in the modern era we live and a witness of my unique journey on earth, in the cosmos.

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