Fields of Sorrow

Confined within the walls of the house

her husband had built for her,

she trusted him implicitly

in all matters of life.

Raising children was not her strong suit,

for she always devoted herself

to work, religion, and her plants,

leaving little room for troubles.

And when those troubles arrived one chilly afternoon,

she assumed he would resolve them all

with a firm hand, shattering, in the process, the trust

and the fragile bond with her daughter.

Nothing was ever the same again;

everyone suppressed their feelings in shame,

like figures on a canvas with a blurred background -

frozen, distant, devoid of life,

mere silhouettes looming on the horizon.

Each of them endured their own solitude under the same roof.

For a time, it seemed that everything was fine;

no one knew what deep wounds

would remain on that delicate soul,

for, in truth, no one cared about the soul.

Each was occupied with something entirely different:

going to church became a race against time -

always running late, just as on trips to the shops,

which they reached only moments before closing.

Each lived their own life

in that vast, loveless house.

Only one man lived life to the fullest,

doing exactly as he pleased, caring for nothing and no one.

He passed away too soon,

and now a chill and dampness pervade the house -

much like the walls steeped in sorrow,

from which swirling smoke rises,

drifting over the nearby fields.