To Snooky

In corner of the old room,
Memories are pulsing.

She remembers
her parallel lives
In different shapes
In permanent color of grays.

The woman
At the edge of forty-six years,
Gives her hair
The freedom
To return
To its natural color.

Gives her past
A chance
To put down
The heavy suitcases
Fly out
like a light feather
To unknown.

The woman,
of hammering inside
Press her face
To cooling hands of love,
While her blue veins
Blossom under
the rain of pain.

Many centuries ago
One of the ordinary days,
Before larking sunrise
While she was sipping
her coffee
She met his eyes
Across the old room.

The half-opened eyes
Inviting, seductive warmth
Looked at her curved, soft lines
with interest.
He read her
a poem,
He offered
his long dark hair
To be touched,
He left a ring
on her heart.

At two hundred-one
years age,
The woman
Looks at the empty space
In corner of the old room.
She remembers
The unsaid words,
The thorns left around her heart,
Press their impatient desires
To her side roads.
The unnoticed marks
Gently turn her
To silence.
Every day a bit more.

The old room,
Next to the china vase
A gray-haired woman
Writes in colorless tears
on a white sheet of paper
To define
The pain inside.
Her half-opened eyes
the ongoing emptiness
Beneath the grays surface.

the old room,
Ordinary days
one by one,
Before the sunrise
The woman,
on her coffee,
sits quiet
In his chair,
Press herself
To the unfinished love
Happy or not,
Press her lips
To the china cup,
Trusting the taste,
Her other half
Will return.

She turned
Five thousand years old.

© Serena Devi, December 2010