His mother groaned not with joy,
But with the prophetic echo of pain \u2013
For she was not birthing a child,
But a bell that would strike at the heart of the world.
He entered the world not as an angel,
But as a blot of ink
That God spilled on the page of creation \u2013
Not by accident, but with the despair of an artist.
His first steps were accompanied
Not by petals, but by shards of mirrors,
In which he saw
The faces of his future torments.
He learned to cry
Before he learned to speak.
And every tear was a letter,
Every breath \u2013 a stanza,
Which the world tried to stifle with laughter.
Clumsy in the mundane,
Strong only in his hunched solitude.
His soul \u2013 like the wing of an archangel,
Broken against the roof of the world.
And he loves \u2013 like one who knows
That love is also a knife,
But held not by a hand, but by a gaze.
His destiny \u2013
To drink the poison of reality
And pour it into the chalice of poetry,
So that others might drink and call it wine.
His enemies are indifference, comfort,
And those who laugh at the depths.
But he is blessed by the curse.
And when the last light fades,
And all names vanish, his word
Will still be beating in the chest of eternity.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
His mother groaned not with joy,But with the prophetic echo of pain \u2013For she was not birthing a child,But a bell that would strike at the heart of the world. He entered the world not as an angel,But as a blot of inkThat God spilled on the page of creation \u2013Not by accident, but with […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[55],"tags":[117,115],"zbirnyk":[],"class_list":["post-4680","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry","tag-loss","tag-word"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n