This past week, I’ve been low on inspiration. I feel bad for not blogging at all last weekend, but I was just exhausted and I didn’t want to post when my heart wasn’t in it. Today I am still exhausted because work isn’t getting any easier, but I have a poem to share with you. I wrote it over the summer, and I hope you will enjoy it!
A Garden Built by Thieves
Vagrants, perhaps, we shall become
Wandering, ever searching
Though better seen as pilgrims, some
For we follow what is holy.
Goodness grows no longer here
In this garden built by thieves
We toiled so to keep the ground clear
But there is nothing now but weeds.
This place we loved, now overrun
Invaded by beetles and thorns
The disease here will not be undone
And all life remaining mourns.
A lot of things have been changing in my life over the last little while. I have had very dear friends leave my place of employment, and the very location of most of my work has also changed. The wall in my corner of the shop was demolished recently to make room for new equipment, and now I am working completely removed from the shop in a room outside. It’s been an adjustment, but I am gradually learning to make adjustments! So although my new situation is different, it’s not all bad. I still see my friends, and have made my new work area (almost) feel like home… minus the banter and amusing comments of the mechanics, of course.
I am viewing all these changes with a great deal of optimism and “keep calm and carry on” spirit; but that said, there was a moment once the shop wall was demolished that really struck me. I had a lot of happy times with truly awesome people in that shop, and to see part of it torn down and visibly gone (as well as to be leaving it myself) was sad. The shop was quiet; and as I stood amidst the rubble of the broken wall I imagined how someone living in World War II might have felt, if they were standing in the ruins of their home or workplace and remembering all the happy times past. That moment, although it was a rare gloomy one in a time of general hope, yielded this poem; the setting and subject of which should be self-evident when you read it. As always, I do hope you appreciate it.
The Shards of Childhood
These villains have shattered
With their guns and their mortars, hammers and fists
All that once mattered
To this lonely Vyazma child with a wish.
My street now a graveyard,
There is nothing left that isn’t ash or dust
I walk silent, on guard
With a feeling inside more fatal than rust.
My footsteps fall slow
Crunching over pieces of memories on the ground
The sorrow that I now know
Whether wise or bitter, is all around.
My home destroyed
And childhood’s sweet joy in the hands of thieves
Despair I cannot avoid
It whispers to me like the listless Russian leaves.