The Flower

In the dark room,
Where the siren does not sing, but prays,
The soul blossoms silently –
Like a poisonous flower beneath the skin.
No one admires it.
No one puts it in a vase.
It tears from within –
And you smile.
Is it not testimony,
That you are still alive?

Every breath is a farewell
To the one who was here yesterday.
To the body that no longer trusts the air.
To the sky that does not hold – but casts down.

Every word is a grave,
And we are the mute gravediggers
Of our own memory.
We choose: what to leave behind,
And what to bury deeper.

But this flower…
It does not wither.
Its roots are in the one who hears.
And you hear, even through sleep.
Your skin remembers more,
Than any city after a bombing.