8/17/11

A LETTER TO MY BELOVED
By Walter William Safar


While I am writing this letter to You, my one and only,

the mute wind,

utterly silent and stealthy,

has opened the doors of the old church,

and carried away the prayers

along the white heavenly fields.

The mute wind never opens my door,

because he knows that my prayers ran dry

long since, just like my tears.



While the eternally faithful solitude

carries my passions

across the face of the bloody horizon,

my memories are slowly dying

on the bonfire of the demonic fire of oblivion.

My one and only, I am not afraid of my own death,

I am afraid of the death of our memories.



You remember, my one and only,

the cheerful song of the golden bird

on the red rose’s petal,

when You used to bestow me with kisses,

moist and reverberant,

warm and dreamy.

My pen is trembling in my hand,

just like that red rose,

where Your gentle gaze is no longer present.

You know, my one and only,

one of the rose’s petals shivers in the wind

more than all the others.

It is the same petal

you used to fondle

at the break of day.

Its face is perfectly human

yearning and lonely

like mine.



Up there, the golden bird is singing,

while down here solitude is following my steps.

Why won’t it be killed?

Because its grave

lies down there along with many souls,

because human laws do not apply to it.



And when the mute wind

started wistfully humming

in the tired night’s embrace,

I continued wandering the world

with the inexplicable hope

that I might, perchance,

walk into You.

Days, months and years

were carried away by the capricious wind of destiny,

and You still remained but a memory.

There is no pain in my defunct heart,

everything is so distant and meaningless without You,

and You are so far,

and me,

I never took part in anything again.

And when that golden bird,

amidst its cheerful song,

would casually look into my eyes,

I would be stricken with indescribable memories.

And while the April sky

rose above its

quivering golden head,

I knew that its song

travels towards a borderline,

invisible world,

just like all our memories do.



Do not worry, my one and only,

the day will come,

our day,

when the golden bird shall sing

for us only,

and when that rose petal shall once again

tremble in Your hand,

just like my hand shall tremble

in Your hand.


- - -
WALTER WILLIAM SAFAR was born on August 6th 1958 Texas-U.S.A.. He is the author of a number of a significant number of prose works and novels, including "Leaden fog", "Chastity on sale", "In the falmes of passion", "The price of life", "Above the clouds", "The infernal circle", "The scream", "The negotiator", "Queen Elizabeth II", as well as a book of poems, titled "The angel and the demon".