The torn womb bleeds,
the deepest color red,
as broken dreams scatter,
across an endless waterfall,
where my tears,
are salty on my cheek.
The leaves fall down,
onto the damp ground,
where a swamp,
is growing grey and old.
Twigs breaks on the wind,
that is howling,
like a sad and lonely wolf.
Desolate places scream,
for endless rains of mercy,
but deaf ears cannot see,
this crystal clear reality,
that the winter will not end,
until the beginning,
of the first spring.
Fleeting hope breaks,
the fragile heart in two,
but when the soul,
is willing to fall in love,
hope arises like an eagle,
on the wings of a swan,
and burns like a golden torch,
for all eternity.
Gineke van Keulen 