Longing

Soul, what hidden fire shapes you?

What patient hand
has turned your longing
into a chamber where desire keeps watch
through the long hours of night?

Something moves there
without sound.

It gathers what has vanished
and surrounds it with light
until absence itself begins to shine.

You remember a garden
no path returns to.

Still you listen
for a voice moving through the quiet halls
of the heart.

It sings of beginnings
that seem lost to time.

And the soul, restless creature,
unfolds its wings again
as though the broken world
might yet be mended.

Strange teacher, longing—

you are the lamp carried by angels
who search the dark
for the face they almost recognize.

From your wound
the stars appear.

From your ache
the shape of the world emerges.

So do not turn away
from the place that hurts.

Remain there.

For in the depths
where light is not yet visible

something is already growing

as a seed grows in darkness

certain of the sky.