heartbreak
They can break your heart, but they can't break your soul; poetry about lost love that comforts and uplifts.
I Wonder What Mary Felt
I wonder what Mary felt. Not the saint in stained glass— but the mother. The woman. The girl who said yes before she even knew what that yes would cost her. I wonder if she remembered the way He kicked inside her womb. If she thought about tiny toes now pierced through and the soft coos now replaced by labored breaths. I wonder if she screamed. Not just cried— but screamed the way only a mother can when the world dares to take her child. They called Him Savior. But she called Him Son. Before the miracles, before the crowds, before the cross— He was hers. And I wonder, as she watched them strip Him of dignity, of breath, of life, if she whispered, “I would trade places.” Because isn’t that what mothers do? I wonder if she saw the boy who once brought her pebbles like treasures, the boy who asked big questions about stars and God and why people hurt. I wonder if she questioned God back. I wonder if she still believed— not in the promise of resurrection, but in the ache of the now. The cross was prophecy fulfilled— but also a mother’s worst nightmare. And maybe that’s the mystery— that God so loved the world, He gave us His Son. But first— a woman had to give us hers.
By Carolina Borgesabout a year ago in Poets
The Fallen Star
"The Fallen Star" Upon a storm-torn eve, when thunder roared, And lightning danced with heaven’s silver sword, A star, once bright in midnight's velvet dome, Was struck and flung far from its starlit home. It plummeted through clouds in tearful blaze, Its brilliance lost in fire’s cruel embrace. To Earth it fell, to fields of emerald grain, Where fireflies danced in quiet, warm refrain. No crown of light, no golden rays remained, Just stardust weeping where its soul was chained. The worms and beetles welcomed it with grace, And taught it how to smile in that dark place. It learned to hum the songs of moss and dew, To cherish stars not only born, but grew. It wandered paths where twilight softly crept, And in the arms of humble earth, it slept. But lo—one eve beneath the willow tree, It glimpsed a silver photograph set free: A picture of the moon, so high and wide, Reflected in a puddle by its side. Its stony heart began to throb and ache, A thousand memories did swiftly wake. The songs it sang with sisters in the skies, The glow it wore—a jewel in night’s guise. And from its eyes, long dry, the tears did stream, Each drop a loss, a wish, a shattered dream. The fireflies blinked, confused by such a sight, As grief eclipsed what once had learned delight. It cried until the morning broke the dark, Its final breath a whisper, soft and stark. Then stardust rose, in shimmered veil and gleam, To where the moonlight weaves the weeper’s dream. There, in the sky’s embrace, its soul took flight, And kissed the Moon—a reunion of light. No longer bound to Earth’s forgiving crust, It lived again, in love, in stars, in trust.
By Vafa Abbasiabout a year ago in Poets
