Sometimes ...

Sometimes 

the lump of a grief

that was stuck in your throat for long
will help you compose a poem;
the lines will come out like a dancing butterfly
words will descend from everywhere,
from the right and the left, this way and that way,
upright, with head held high
like a fresh bout of summer rain and
will melt your sorrow
drop by drop
silently, peacefully,
without a movement, no stir
no wrinkle, nor a stain!
And there will be
just those remnants of a season gone by
like the lingering wetness of some past tears.

Slowly, eventually

The azure sky will promise an equal light,
no beginning, no end, but
an equal music, and
only then you will reach a spotless holy
Freedom!