G Spot

By May 29, 2017G Spot, Opinion

The silence of flowers

By Virginia J. Pasalo

IT is getting to be a habit, this three-hour sleep. I woke up at 2:45 a.m., listening at first to the sound of parrots imitating the sound of humans and the Gregorian chant imitating the voice of angels. Then, I turned off the music and listened to the streets that never sleep.

The streets have many stories to tell, but never spoke. Others spoke for them, the blood of suspected addicts for example, still cries for justice, long after it was baked by the heat underneath and the sun above it. The dirt too, and the dog shit, cursed as people stepped on them, and they fumed even after being carted away, or conveniently covered with sand. There’s blood and stink in the streets of Marawi, and they too are shouting stories, muted by the silence of the authorities. There is a deafening quiet in the news, in the mimes, and the memes.

No one seems to listen, and people pass by, hurrying to go to places, in quick steps, and when interrupted in any way, utter monosyllabic curses repeated many times over, that it becomes a sentence with no specific subject and no defined predicate. Winds, stronger than their voices, blew the stories away, and brought them to the sea, where the mermaids kept them as songs, composed by others, from a distance, where the grass was green, once.

And then i listen to the silence. I listen to the silence of the flowers.

 

Silence of the dead

the stump pulsates unable to deliver life

to its fallen crown

it waits, standing on its pain

stuck to the ground

a body struggling to find its head

The birds have flown

The trees have fallen

The flowers danced

to their grave, below

the road is quiet now

and you,

you are quiet, too.

 

Smiling

a newborn is smiling

with eyes still closed

and i smiled back

even if she did not see

i closed my eyes, smiling

i smelled a flower, opening

the scent of innocence

drawing nostrils, lustful eyes

silver scissors shining

and the bud is growing,

thorns.

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