Hearts in Shadow
First Tableau: Of What Age Do You Speak?
Of what age do you speak, beloved?
The one that slipped through our fingers—
like water, untouchable, unreclaimed,
leaving only lands of longing behind?
Or that time which feared its own shadow,
where sorrow found peace beneath its weight?
It carried us, yet belonged to none—
a dream that lived inside our ache,
then passed, whispering its name.
Do you ask which age will see us meet again?
The one crucified upon the crowd of passersby—
that fled, leaving love as faint,
as portraits pressed in memory’s dusk?
We visit them by night, or in the trembling hour of dusk,
as if laying flowers on the graves of dreamers.
Or perhaps you mean the age unborn—
still ripening in a womb of jasmine breath,
ready to bloom when your eyes draw near,
ready to flood when your sighs return.
No—speak of this age, here, now—
where life becomes the life of lovers,
where two lights merge into one,
and we see the world through dreaming eyes.
That, my love, is the true time—
measured not by calendars or fading storms,
but by the heartbeat shared between us.
An age born of honesty and wonder,
a prayer of light within your eyes.
For since we met—believe me—
the meeting has never ended,
the longing never slept.
Still, across the distant horizon,
our call endures—
inviting tomorrow
to keep its promise to the lovers.
We live in hope—
that we might return as we once were:
a shimmer of light upon the road of coming dreams.
For life, in truth, began not when we loved,
but when we whispered—
We will meet again, even if after time itself.
Of what age do you speak, beloved?
Of the one that slipped between our hands—
like water, untouchable, unreclaimed—
leaving behind only the faint light of longing?
Or of the age that passed through us
like a quiet shadow,
touching the heart before it knew,
leaving behind fragments of memory—
stars dimming slowly in the sky of the soul?
Do you speak of the age that left us,
and stretched silence like an ocean,
while images hung between dusk and dawn—
and we, in our stillness,
laid greetings upon the graves of dreamers?
Or of the age unborn,
still blooming in the hush of our waiting—
a garden rising when our eyes meet,
when our souls understand
that life began only the moment we did?
This age is not counted in days or years,
but in the pulse between two hearts—
in that first astonishment
when lovers learn that time itself
is made of moments like these:
where waiting becomes light,
and meeting becomes the whole of life.
Since that instant, the meeting has never ended,
nor has the longing dimmed.
Our call still drifts across the horizon,
summoning a tomorrow lit by lovers’ dawn—
a world without calendars,
without the tyranny of hours—
only us: one spirit, one breath,
eyes that remember
we were born together.
In this age, every glance is a birth,
every laughter builds a wing in the sky,
every whisper settles in the heart
and grows into an eternal dream.
The night hums our names,
stars flutter like wings,
and the wind caresses flowers awake—
opening the houses of memory,
where past and future meet
in a single, pure moment
burning with love.
Here, love knows no arithmetic—
it asks no permission of time,
it fears no departure.
It remains, untouched by clocks or hands,
a realm between two souls
where sorrow dissolves
and yearning is reborn.
That is our true age:
a single, sacred instant—
pure, aflame with desire—
before which we were nothing,
and after which we will never be the same.
Since that moment, every meeting
is another birth—
like light that never fades,
like a dream that passes through us
and leaves us more alive,
more in love,
more certain
that only together
do we know the meaning of time.
Here, where one spirit’s light merges into another,
and the world is seen through the eyes of dreamers,
life is no longer a measure—
but a state of being:
each heartbeat a lifetime,
each meeting a new creation of the universe.
And so, time stays.
Each meeting remakes it.
Each touch rewrites the clock.
We love—
and time begins again.
Only together
do we return to life,
as if every heartbeat
were the first dawn.
…
Second Tableau — I Believed Her
I believed her—
I believed myself when I found her.
I believed her heart
the way a lover believes the wind
as it slips between his fingers,
the way morning dew believes the sun
when it touches the petals of a flower.
Like water—
she flowed through my hands,
touched the heart without being held,
leaving traces everywhere her light had passed.
Her laughter—
it entered my soul without knocking,
played with me like a cool dawn breeze
whispering to everything around:
This is her smile—
this is the life she gives you.
And so I became a part of her,
and she, a part of me.
We walked together
without boundaries,
without history,
without tomorrow.
Her eyes—
a quiet sea,
carrying secrets known only
to those who dare to dive.
They held tides of longing,
waves untouched by any feet,
and behind her smile—
a sun hidden by clouds.
My soul drowned in that light,
surrendering without resistance,
without question—
like night dissolving into stars,
like a dream that nothing can wake.
And her smile—
a glimpse of sun cutting through fog,
a ray whispering to life: go on.
I could hear it before she laughed,
as if joy itself
was taking breath through her lips.
I felt her before she appeared.
Everything around us fell silent,
as if the world itself bowed
to the hush between us—
a secret the universe held
without knowing why.
I could hear your heart
crying out her name.
Yes—
I heard her in the wind,
saw her smile in the trembling leaves,
felt her in every movement,
every whisper,
every shade of night.
The water answered,
with the murmur of its song:
I mirror her face.
Every wave of me carries your heart.
Even when she is far,
she remains here.
I saw her—
lived her reflection in the water,
in the raindrops,
in the small pool before me.
I kept her
as the sea keeps its pearl—
a secret no one dares reveal.
I believed in her—
believed with every pulse of passion,
with every surrender my soul could offer to love.
I thought she held my heart
the way I believed I held hers.
I lived our moments
the way a cloud lives its silence above the sea—
as if I could see what no one else had ever seen,
as if our love were a secret
the world could never touch.
Your love was quiet—
yet it was there.
Yes, there—despite the chains,
despite the ache,
despite the impossible.
The chains of life,
of days,
of what the world calls cannot.
I loved her without terms,
without borders,
without fear.
And I learned—
that true love is not always complete,
that sometimes it exists in silence,
honest, present,
beyond every barrier,
beyond pain itself.
Every scent,
every color,
carried her memory.
Every petal whispered her name.
I saw her smile in every flower,
heard her laughter
echo through the rustle of leaves—
a music the world mistook for wind.
I feel her in every breath of wind
that brushes my face.
And tell me—does love ever reach completion?
Sometimes it is only this feeling,
this silence between my heart and hers,
this pulse that proves we are lovers
even if love itself is only an illusion—
the illusion of truth.
How much of our time was made of dreams?
How much of her smile was bound by fear,
while my heart drowned
in the mirage of happiness?
I gave her all the honesty I had,
believing that love alone would be enough.
And still, true love remains—
despite the chains,
despite the ache.
Yes, it stays within me,
in every breeze,
in every reflection,
in every shadow.
It stays, even when we are no longer together.
Our story—
an honest love,
a beautiful wound,
a freedom that never came true—
yet it taught me the meaning of love,
the art of waiting,
the patience of the heart,
the grace of loving without owning,
of believing without possessing,
of keeping the dream,
even when it was never ours to hold.
She loved me—
I could feel her hidden pulse,
her words passing softly
like whispers over autumn leaves,
flowing through my chest
before reaching my ears—
as if she had known my heart
long before I knew it myself.
But she was bound—
by chains I could not touch,
by walls seen only by the soul.
A cage of circumstance
closed around her
like winter clouds around the sky—
heavy, dim, unyielding.
The world seemed to seal its doors,
and only the wind could lift them—
but the wind was never ours.
It never reached us.
I saw her as a flower held captive
in a narrow pot,
reaching toward the sun,
toward air, toward freedom.
Yet the walls of reality
kept her fragrance locked inside.
And I—
I tried, in secret,
to slip through those cracks,
to send her the breeze of my heart,
to touch her,
to free her—if only a little.
I felt her life beating within that prison.
Yes… I felt her.
I loved her.
I knew freedom was not ours,
yet my love remained—
like a whisper of wind through iron bars,
like a shadow
trying to pass through the walls of silence.
The night bears witness.
It flows between the trees,
wraps the balcony,
touches my face.
Every shadow seems to ask me:
You love her… but do you free her?
I answer in silence:
I know I am powerless,
but my heart is with her…
even if she remains trapped,
even if she never reaches the sun,
even if love is only a whisper
between walls that cannot open…
The flower—
I feel she knows my heart is hers,
that I breathe her name at morning and night,
that every moment I spend with her
is a fragment of the freedom she is denied.
The water in the small pool murmurs:
Your reflection carries her.
Every wave of me whispers her name.
Even if she is far,
I keep her in my heart.
Yes… every reflection,
every heartbeat,
every wave,
every tear,
every whisper,
carries her to me,
like a river carrying tiny stones
between its fingers.
A love without full freedom,
yet ever-present.
The wind passes through the trees:
Everything you try… everything you wish for…
I know—all tries to free itself,
even if powerless.
I loved her without conditions,
without chains, without expectation.
I learned that true love
is quiet, honest, present,
even behind walls that never open.
The flowers whisper her name:
in every color,
in every scent, in every petal.
I see her smile,
hear the echo of her laughter,
feel her as I feel the breeze,
as I feel moonlight,
as I feel the rain.
The stars blink, asking silently:
Does love need to be fulfilled?
Sometimes… sometimes it is enough
to love her this way—
to carry her in our silence,
to live her in imagination,
to breathe her with every passing moment.
And I…
keep her in my heart.
I love her like night loves the stars,
like thirsty earth loves rain,
like the breeze loves the flowers,
even if she is not free,
even if love remains only a dream.
Our story…
an honest love,
a painful illusion,
a freedom never granted.
Yet it taught us the meaning of true love,
the art of waiting,
the patience of the heart.
It taught us to love without possession,
to believe without owning,
to keep the dream
even if it was never ours.
I believed in love.
I believed we would live each moment
as it was meant,
that we would breathe and laugh together,
between night and day,
between our dream and the illusion of the world.
I thought every second with her
was enough—
as if time itself
granted us the right to fill it with desire and warmth.
But reality…
was harsher than any dream,
deeper than any promise.
Do you think love alone is enough?
Yes… I believed.
Not merely that it suffices,
I placed all my dreams, all my heart’s honesty,
on the table of every evening,
assuming that love would find a way
through any constraint.
Yet life drew its heavy curtains,
walls that suffocated the dream,
walls that left no room for happiness.
She loved me—
I felt it in every silent pulse,
every unspoken word,
every smile that reached my heart
before it reached my eyes.
But life did not grant her the freedom to choose,
did not allow her heart to overflow as it wished.
Everything trapped… everything bound.
Yes…
I gave her all that I had of honesty,
all that I had of dreams,
believing love alone was enough—
and learned that love cannot break chains,
cannot free what life’s circumstances imprison.
The night surrounds you with its silence…
it asks: Have you found a way?
The path is closed… no escape.
Love fills my heart,
yet it cannot fill our lives.
It remains between us
like a whisper no one hears.
The flowers on the balcony murmur softly:
Something holds you back,
something deeper than any safety.
I saw it…
I felt that my presence with her was limited,
as if she were a flower held captive,
and I the breeze trying to touch her.
But the walls were firm…
and the chains allowed no air to pass.
The stars shimmer, whispering in silence:
Love… sometimes there is no place for freedom.
Yes… I loved her
despite all the boundaries of our confinement.
I kept her in my heart
as the night keeps the silence of shadows,
as the rain delights the thirsty earth,
as silence preserves a secret
too deep to speak aloud.
Our story…
was honest love,
a dream in a world that restrains us,
a pulse within the heart of time.
It taught us that love alone can be enough,
even when freedom is always part of the picture,
and that the heart is satisfied simply by feeling,
even if it cannot reach.
How it hurt me…
how the moments wounded me,
seeing her smile at me,
while my heart drowned
in a fleeting, fragile joy.
As if everything around me shouted with happiness,
yet I knew her smile was bound,
that her heart was not free
as I had imagined.
I lived between truth and dream,
between what I wished for and what was,
between love denied its right,
and a heart never granted freedom.
Did you feel it?
Did you know
that each smile was never fully yours?
Yes… I felt it.
Every moment was like a dream
touching my fingers,
then vanishing behind walls
that never opened.
The wind embraced me softly:
Patience… patience…
I was learning
how to understand that true love
does not lie in meeting,
nor in promises,
nor in what the heart alone desires.
It lies in enduring the ache,
in the power of understanding,
in the mercy we give to the soul
that has nothing but what it possesses.
The stars gleam like small eyes, silently asking:
Did you love enough?
I loved…
I loved to the edge of pain, with her and for her.
I loved until I understood
that love is sometimes silent,
even if it remains in a heart
that cannot claim its freedom.
The flowers on the balcony whisper:
Every moment of pain was a lesson…
Yes, every moment of pain,
every bound smile, every heart unfreed,
taught me the meaning of mercy,
the meaning of true love.
They taught me that love can be silent,
that it can be present
despite chains,
despite pain, despite all impossibilities.
And here I sit,
between night, wind, and shadows,
replaying every smile,
every moment, every heartbeat,
keeping them in my heart
like a silent treasure,
like a flower in a narrow pot,
like a dream passing through walls
without touching them.
And that taught me
that true love
is not in possessing the beloved,
nor in absolute freedom,
but in honesty of heart,
in patience,
in mercy,
in the power to love without conditions.
The night drifts heavy…
the stars watch us in silence,
the wind whispers our names
as if it knows the whole story,
as if it says:
Love is deeper than chains,
and most beautiful when it is true
even in the face of impossibility…
I saw her image in every shadow,
in the reflection of water,
in every star tracing a beam above my window,
in the whisper of the wind brushing my face…
As if she existed in everything,
even in the things we never touched,
even in the silence surrounding us.
I lived her in illusion…
I kept her in my heart
as a fisherman keeps a small fish in his hand,
knowing he must return it
to the sea sooner or later.
I held her between my fingers,
but feared letting her slip
from my grasp,
from the beats of my heart,
between the silence of night,
between the whispers of wind…
Every shadow, every reflection,
every star whispered to me:
Do not try to possess her…
sometimes love is enough
just to exist,
even if it is only an illusion,
even if she remains far away,
even if she is trapped in your heart alone…
The wind whispered again:
Everything passes… as every moment passes…
as every dream will end…
Yes… in every moment,
in every illusion,
in every feeling,
I renewed my hold on her…
to keep her,
to breathe her in silence,
and to know that despite distance and chains,
despite the barriers that prevent our full meeting,
love would remain present,
true, alive in everything around me.
The water reflected her image,
as if all time itself
were replaying her before me.
I saw her,
I lived her,
I dreamed her, and I kept her,
as the night keeps the stars,
as the sea blends with its waves,
as the heart clings to a love
it cannot possess.
She was a love denied freedom…
and the truth was bitter,
yet she taught me to honor love,
even when it is only an illusion,
to cherish the pulse that reaches me
from a heart that cannot overflow as it wishes.
Every day… every moment…
I discovered something new in her smile,
something hidden in her tears,
something greater than words in her silence,
and an echo of a soul
I cannot set free in her words.
She was truly beloved…
yet trapped
between desire and a world that denies her choice,
between her dream and the walls of reality,
between what her spirit longs for
and what life imposes.
Do you see the chains?
Do you feel the distance between us?
Yes… I feel it.
I feel her in every heartbeat,
in every smile, in every tear,
and I understand that love here
is not in possessing her,
but in understanding her,
in honoring her pulse,
in patient presence
with her just as she is.
The shadows on the ground sway:
Is it enough?
Yes… it is enough to keep her in my heart,
to hold her in every reflection,
in every moonbeam,
in every whisper of the breeze,
to give her all my honesty without possessing her,
to be present for her, with her, because of her,
present despite the chains,
present despite the pain,
present despite impossibility…
The water in the small pool reflects her image:
every reflection,
every illusion,
every moment
teaches me that true love is not in possession,
but in loving sincerely,
in guarding it silently,
in keeping it safe
as the stars keep their shine,
as the waves keep their rhythm,
as the heart continues to beat
without overflowing…
The flowers stir lightly in the breeze:
true love sometimes is enough
just to be present,
even if bound,
even if distant,
even if only an illusion trapped
between the walls of reality…
I continued to love her…
more deeply than any meeting,
more than any promise…
I realized that the deepest love, the truest love,
does not have to be complete,
but simply present in the heart,
despite chains,
despite pain,
despite illusion.
I loved her as the rain loves the thirsty earth,
as the breeze loves the flowers,
as the night loves the stars,
as if everything around me breathed her name,
as if every raindrop, every movement of the wind, every star’s light
carried her to me, reminded me of her…
And love filled my heart…
even knowing I could not set her free,
even while suspended between dream and reality,
between what I wished and what was,
between what could be and what could not…
The night whispered in my ear:
Is this love enough?
— Yes… it is enough for it to be present,
enough to live with it in my heart,
enough to feel it in every heartbeat,
in every whisper,
in every reflection of rain on the earth,
in every shadow, in every stir of the breeze,
in every distant star shining…
And everything around me bore witness:
true love
is not in possessing the beloved,
nor in completing the meeting,
nor in fulfilling every wish,
but in honesty, in appreciation, in feeling,
even if love remains trapped, even if it stays far away…
I stood here,
between rain, wind, night, and stars,
and I kept her,
I loved her,
I dreamed her, I gave her my heart,
knowing that despite all chains and boundaries,
love remained… alive… true… eternal.
The wind passed through the trees…
it brushed the flowers,
it returned her image to me,
as if whispering softly:
Here she is, present, even if distant,
here… in your heart, always here…
I heard her voice in the rustle of leaves,
in the trickle of water over small stones,
in the steps of wind sneaking between the walls,
in everything around me…
Everything reminded me of her,
of her love, bound yet sincere,
of her truth hidden behind life’s constraints…
I kept her in my heart,
as the night keeps its silence,
as the sea keeps its waves,
as the rain keeps its drops between earth and sky…
And every movement of the breeze,
every reflection, every shadow,
spoke to me of her heart, of her chains, of her lost freedom,
and that love sometimes exists fully,
even if incomplete,
even if trapped
within walls that cannot be broken…
The flowers swayed,
as if they knew the secret of my heart:
Yes… I loved her…
I loved her as the night loves the stars,
as the rain loves the thirsty earth,
as the breeze loves the flowers,
even if she remained distant…
even if her love was confined…
I kept her in my heart, breathed her in every moment,
knowing that despite all chains,
love remained… alive… true… eternal…
I saw her in the reflections of water…
in every small stream that passed by,
in the raindrops brushing my face at dawn,
in every wave breaking on the shores of memory…
I lived her there…
in every movement of water, in every reflection,
kept her as the sea keeps its pearls,
as if a secret eternal,
a secret no one could ever reveal…
The secret of love denied freedom…
Every wave, every drop, every reflection
spoke to me of her heart, her chains, her lost freedom,
of moments unfinished,
of heartbeats unspent,
of love true, present, silent, hidden…
I breathed her!
In water I saw her,
in every drop of rain,
I heard the echo of her voice in the river’s murmur,
I saw her smile in every ripple,
and I knew that this love…
despite all limits, despite all impossibilities…
remained alive, true, eternal, present in my heart…
Keep her… live her… hold her secret among the waves,
as the night keeps the secrets of the stars,
as the rain keeps the secrets of the thirsty earth…
Yes… I did this…
I kept her, loved her, lived her, protected her,
even if she remained distant,
even if her love stayed confined within chains…
And every night…
I surrendered to imagination…
I lived her with me…
I revived her in my heart…
I breathed her as a lover breathes his air,
as if every breath carried her to me,
carried her into my heart…
I remembered…
that true love does not die…
it continues in silence…
like waves on the shore,
coming and going without end…
like light passing through a window in a dark room,
illuminating something inside that no one else sees…
like a dream that remains present despite all chains, despite all impossibilities…
The night whispered to me:
Silent love is present…
even if you do not touch it, even if you do not possess it…
even if it remains only an illusion…
I lived her in my imagination, kept her in my heart,
knowing that every heartbeat, every breath, every dream
stood witness to the truth of this love, to its subtlety and its strength together…
The waves whispered on the shore:
Everything passes… every moment… every heartbeat…
Yes… every moment of silent love, every secret pulse, every living illusion…
I kept her, loved her, lived her, protected her,
and I knew that despite the chains, despite impossibility, despite distance…
love remained, alive, eternal, silent, yet real…
And so…
I learned that love does not need to be lived in the meeting…
and it is not measured by joy or by pain…
but by the honesty we carry deep inside,
by the heartbeat that proves the heart was alive when it loved…
and that life was more beautiful,
even if love was only an illusion,
or a love denied its freedom,
or a heart trapped within chains…
Our story was…
a love true,
a painful illusion,
a freedom never granted…
Yet it taught me the meaning of love…
the meaning of waiting…
the meaning of patience with the heart…
the meaning of loving without possessing,
of believing without owning,
of holding onto a dream, even if it was never ours…
This is true love…
not in possession, not in meeting, not in completion…
but in honest presence, in the heartbeat that endures,
in the ability to love despite the chains…
The waves whispered on the shore:
Every moment of silent love,
every imprisoned dream, every living illusion…
it is enough to carry it in our hearts,
to live with it, to preserve it,
for it bears witness to our truth,
to our presence,
to our capacity to love…
The wind passed through the trees, whispering:
Love is present, alive, eternal…
even if it remains behind walls never opened,
even if it remains in illusion, in silence, in chains…
Love is present… true… eternal…
A Woman of Light
Evening fell slowly over the old streets of Damascus,
when he entered the small gallery hidden between two leaning walls of brick and stone.
Inside, there was no noise—only faint music from an old corner device,
mingled with the scent of linseed oil and aged paint.
He stopped abruptly, as if something had seized him mid-dream.
There she was, suspended on the opposite wall,
a painting framed in ancient wood, carved with delicate patterns that resembled wings.
At the heart of the frame, a woman walked toward him
with gentle, confident steps,
her white flowing dress shimmering like a fabric untouched by hands.
Behind her, colors rippled like a sky preparing for dawn,
opening arms to a light that came not from outside, but from within her.
The frame seemed a witness to a bygone time;
its edges worn by countless hands, yet it retained some of its original majesty.
The entwined carvings resembled wings guarding the dream within.
In its depth, she stood barefoot, as if the ground obeyed her steps.
Her skin radiated a clarity where light and shadow intertwined,
and her hair fell like golden wheat beneath the sunset.
Her gaze carried both reassurance and mystery,
as if foretelling and reproving at once.
He stood captivated,
as though the moment had ripped him from time
and cast him into a story with neither beginning nor end.
He felt that the painting was not merely to be seen, but to be felt.
There was something in her features that reminded him of someone he had long silenced,
something resembling her when she smiled after a moment of hesitation,
or when she concealed astonishment behind a brief word.
He took a step closer and whispered to himself:
She walks toward me, not toward the light…
as if she knows the path I have forgotten.
She moved closer, standing beside him, listening to the pulse of silence between colors.
She whispered, reflected in the glass of the painting:
Look at me… there is nothing forced in me,
no movement, no smile. All is simple truth,
as if the painter never drew a woman, but purity itself.
He replied softly:
Or perhaps he painted an idea of beauty before anyone could see it.
They exchanged a long, silent look,
and in that moment, they both felt that the painting was no longer merely visual beauty,
but a shared secret belonging only to them, unspoken.
As if the woman within the frame listened to them, smiling quietly, reassuringly.
When he left the gallery, night had slipped across the city walls
like a curtain of dark velvet.
Outside, the air carried the scent of rain-soaked alleys in October,
and a hint of oud drifting from a nearby café.
He walked silently along the grey cobblestones,
immersed in the echo of what he had seen.
Finally, he whispered, as if afraid to awaken something within the painting:
Strange how a silent face can awaken in me what I thought had long slept…
After a brief pause, he heard her reply:
Because beauty speaks not to the eyes, but to what lies beyond them.
He added, recalling the memory of looking at her sideways:
Sometimes we see in a painting what we dare not say to anyone.
He smiled, sensing her words touch a hidden place in his heart,
the place he had always fled whenever he neared confession.
His steps fell into a quiet rhythm,
the night accompanying him like a faithful companion.
In his mind, the woman in the painting continued to walk endlessly,
her white dress flowing, her eyes gleaming like an unquiet memory.
He felt that she no longer remained on the wall,
but had stepped out to inhabit his path,
as if she were the shadow of a dream yet unfinished.
As he walked away from the gallery,
he glanced toward the window still lit in the distance,
and whispered to himself:
Perhaps that woman was the dream itself…
the dream that precedes my confession,
and quietly prepares it.
And she—she seemed to walk beside him in a long, silent rhythm,
her mysterious smile seeping into every feature,
glowing as if she understood
that the painting and the mirror of memory
had turned into a small dialogue between them…
one that still unfolds slowly,
on the threshold of the dream.
A Woman of Light
I entered the gallery as one enters a beloved’s chest.
I was not looking for a painting—
I was searching for my lost reflection in a woman I had never known.
She was there,
hanging from the wall like a prayer descending from the sky.
Her face—no, not a face—
but an open window to the dawn,
to a light that breathed femininity
and walked slowly toward my heart.
O woman of light,
O whiteness treading on the edges of a dream,
which painter dared to capture you?
Which madness made this body radiate with light?
Which secret allowed you to smile with such calm,
as if the world dissolved between your lips?
The painting was not made to remain still on a wall—
it bloomed.
I heard her voice from the depth of the paint,
a soft sound rising from the lungs of clouds, saying:
“Come closer… if you believe that beauty can hurt.”
I stepped forward,
and swore that she moved.
Her eyes shifted.
She smiled at me as if she had known my memory for centuries.
I asked,
“Are you a woman, or an idea?”
She said,
“I am what you fear to speak… and what you dream to touch.”
Light melted between my fingers,
and the colors whispered to me:
“She is not in the painting… she is in you.”
She Advanced Toward Me
She stepped closer,
until the air between us became a single body.
I touched the glass,
and my heart trembled as if it had brushed against flame.
Her hair flowed from the frame like tiny rivers of gold,
and the night withdrew from the room in shame.
O woman not born of dust,
O woman forged from the scent of light and the purity of glow,
how did you play with my body until it shivered?
How did you enter my memory without knocking on the door?
I left the gallery,
but she did not remain there.
She walked beside me,
in her white gown,
with features that resembled meaning before it was spoken.
O woman of light,
O rarity of imagination,
O my poem created before language,
how can I tell you that I love you
while I am still learning how to see?
For when I look at you,
I understand why fire was created,
and why poets write while they weep.
I understand that beauty is not a promise,
but a punishment for those who behold it and are yet alive.
Second Painting from the Second Story: Conversations in the Dark
Night lay over the city
like a soft ash-cloud,
covering rooftops with wings of heavy stillness.
But stillness was no silence.
Lost pulses of light
slipped through windows
like forgotten water.
The wind sneaked through wall cracks,
carrying the scent of damp wood,
the old paint’s moan,
dust of memories clinging to corners.
He sat alone,
a yellow lamp trembling above his papers,
aging from longing,
shivering like a candle on the edge of departure.
He closed the window.
Yet the wind—knowing its way—
slipped through a tiny gap,
brushing his cheek with a soft caress,
bringing the scent of the painting,
a light undimmed since first he saw it,
a voice not yet born.
He stared into the darkness,
and from it, a delicate shadow split—
lines forming from breaths and light,
a female shape emerging
from fragments of dream and imagination,
as if the night itself had drawn her
onto the canvas of his mind.
She spoke, voice born from a silence that knows music:
“Why do you deny me?
Was it not you who woke me
from the wall’s long sleep?”
Hesitation
He hesitated,
as if the words feared
to leave his mouth naked.
He whispered:
“You are a phantom… just a painting, nothing more.”
She smiled—
a smile that knew what remained unspoken—
and sat across from him.
The darkness turned into a stage of light and shadow.
Every movement of hers
shivered in his chest
like the first breath after long crying.
She said:
“If I am a phantom,
then why does your voice tremble?
Why, when you close your eyes,
do I walk in you as an unextinguishable light?”
He turned his face away,
hiding his weakness in the shadows:
“Because you remind me of the unbearable,
of beauty that cannot be touched.”
She leaned closer—
her face near,
near as a dream on the brink of fulfillment,
as if light had reflected on still water,
and the water stretched across the room,
immersing him
so he realized
she did not come from outside,
but from within him.
“I remind you,” she whispered,
“of the half you left in the painting,
when you thought reason alone
could save beauty from burning.”
A long silence inhabited the room,
hearing only his heartbeat,
the quiver of shadows on the walls,
the echo of the distant city—
until the room itself became a third body in their dialogue.
He spoke in a broken voice,
like glass bleeding light:
“Who are you?
A dream?
A shadow of a woman I once knew
in a time that wasn’t mine?”
She laughed softly—
like light shattering on water—
and said:
“I am what you fear to see within yourself,
the light that glows through your shadow,
the woman who completes you
yet can never be seen.”
He rose,
walked toward the mirror.
There she was—
behind him—
her eyes, mirrors within mirrors,
swallowing the dark
and giving it back as light.
Silence echoed in the room.
Then her voice—warm,
as if his own breath had returned from a long journey—
whispered:
“The closer you come,
the nearer I become.
But every time you fear me,
a part of me fades into you.
Won’t you read to me tonight?”
He turned—
she was smiling,
her features melting into light,
as if woven from the very thought of him.
“I fear,” he said,
“that if I write you, you’ll disappear.”
She answered:
“If you write me, I will remain.
Words are my second body,
and every letter you carve
brings me back to life.”
Then she vanished—
like dust of light
after a late sunset.
But her scent lingered in the air,
an unwritten promise,
waiting to be named.
He sat at his desk.
He held the pen.
The letters trembled in his fingers—
not to be written, but to be seen.
He began to write.
Words poured from the darkness
like water bleeding through stone,
forming a living canvas
where imagination met reality,
shadow mingled with light,
fear with longing,
lack with completeness.
The wind returned,
brushing his papers,
whispering names he had never spoken.
The tired lamp above him
glowed as if it understood each line.
And so, the room—
air, light, paper, shadow, silence, memory—
became a single body of love,
beating with dream,
returning meaning to the dark,
restoring the face he had thought lost.