The Seagulls’ Shore

I can’t become healed

I am sick

How I have come to hate this helplessness

Nothing seems to work

How much I suffer

Will there ever come a day when the seabirds

abandon their sea,

or when the seagulls

leave their shores?

They face the wind alone.

Why does life not give us what we long for?

Why do its winds toy with us?

Why is pain allowed to feed on our blood?

Why are sighs allowed to rejoice in crushing us?

Why are we asked to endure

beyond the limits of endurance?

Overlooking is both a blessing and a curse,

and pretending not to notice is an ugly obligation.

Damn the schemes, the intrigues, and all that is vile.

In the end, nothing remains

but the good seed

and the one with a sound heart,

even if the pages of time fold over us.

How my sorrow crushes me.

There is no point in trying.

The road is empty,

the bag is bare,

with neither provisions nor a mount to carry us.

Forgive me, for most of what I write is anguish,

and much of it is tears.

But I taste the bitterness,

with neither power nor a way out.

Patience for the days to come.

Perhaps they will relent,

and perhaps the carpet of goodness will finally unfold,

and we will reap the fruits.