The Spell of Forest
I wandered,
With hands brimming with illusion,
And a patient vision
Trailing after me.
Its feet
As though brushing the hem of the sky.
I followed,
It wandered slowly,
Among the crickets,
Whose chorus, once lost,
lingered beyond the long sighs of a night,
Left unsung in their song.
In its shadow,
A forest appeared—
Abandoned by the sky’s embrace.
Yet the clouds wept,
Quiet in their mockery
Of a pond that had surrendered its lilies
To the spellbound of darkness.
I wandered further,
Until I reached a feast
Where the wind played host
To leaves stilled by silence.
I had forgotten the vision,
But it had nestled deep
Among the dry wanderers
of the night-bound forest.
I reached out my hands—
A shadowed vast enveloped me.
I could not see it,
Yet it kissed me gently,
Within its bare being.
Suddenly,
The weight of its absence
Seized my soul.
I could not see it.
The forest’s enchantment
Had blinded my eyes,
Chained them
to its bewitching beauty.
I longed to return,
To tear through the darkness,
But my legs,
Breathless from the frigid winds of illusion,
Faltered.
My hands,
Were the axe that felled branches,
Whose seeds my own hands
Had drowned long ago.
I ran after it,
But it lay buried deep
In a murky, swamp-like abyss,
Waiting.
Waiting for me,
Though running alone
Was never enough.
Breathless, I halted.
The weight of a hope so vast,
had worn my feet to nothing.
In fury,
I embraced myself.
From the heat of my hands,
The illusions, once feathered wings
Tucked behind my back,
Turned to ashes,
Scattering, bit by bit.
Suddenly, I fell—
Fell into the sky.
Yet the forest clawed at my throat,
With the desperate pleas
Of its branches.
Its cries could not,
Would not
Anchor my unbearable lightness.
High above,
I saw a mirror,
Veiled in smoke.
In its heart,
A woman, lost
Amid the black forest’s sneers,
Clutched herself tightly
In her own arms.
Copyright ©
Bahar Moshtagh
|