Francois Bergh
where lost words come to rest in pieces…Archive for Grief
Checkmate
These ramparts are deserted -
The battlements abandoned -
Wandering these empty halls
Are ghostly memories…
The kingdom is in shambles -
Its castle lies in ruins -
Skyward spires are no more -
The flag is gone for good…
The mighty king has fallen -
Lost along with grace -
Since his queen had vanished -
Lost without a trace…
Fly
Where rainclouds weep
And sorrow’s deep-
A rainbow glows like gold
The silver ring of a dark cloud
Disappears as it cries
A rainfall of grief
Into the ocean world,
Where – seeming insignificant –
Individual pain is lost.
Must the beaten slate
Consume the fate
Like inferno brittle kindling?
Then should we fly
The birds in the sky-
Fly!
And use the oblivion
To change the world
In a way…
…….To be seen
And-
…….Known!
Vermilion Lament
Can you hear the tragic cry?
The anguish of a thousand angels;
Red October has struck again!
A broken mother – mortified -
Mourns the morbid midnight misery;
The gory gush of premature progeny!
Sobbing sorrow for scarlet sadness;
A clumsy handful of lost potential
Slipping through her stricken fingers…
Carefully clutching the crimson casualty
Comprehension dawns with crippling clarity;
Bitter bereavement replacing vitality…
The grim harvest has now ended
And the blood-moon is fully risen -
And only the crimson wail prevails…
~~~
18 October 2011, 23:45 – Forever will you be remembered, my son… :’(
The end
Like the last sands seeping through the hourglass
I’m bleeding my lethal sorrow through burst veins…
Misery’s mammoth trunk constricts my broken heart
and I gasp while the thick air escapes my lungs…
My soul is teeming from a thousand butterflies
the flutterling-children dancing on my skin -
I waver and wrestle against the growing despair
but the cords of grief have conquered my will…
My eyes reach out to the star-barren heavens;
the endless murk is reflecting-repeating:
my tragic plea, splintered and shattered-
the fruits of delight now rotten and spoilt…
Crumpled and cold I collapse and crumble
My being becomes liquid – a whirling vortex;
I am swept along by the flooded rivers;
the tumble-twirl tempo shredding my thoughts…
And then there is nothing – I float fatigued -
Around me the vacuum of tranquil harmony…
I drink the silence – the sweet relief
And soar through the portals of salvation…
-Translated from the Afrikaans poem “Die einde” by Francois Bergh
