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Run

Once a young girl absurdly shy,
Meandered aimlessly encapsulated in her space -
Too small to be much noticed, too big to even cry -
Though the icy abyss never closed,
However hard she ran from it.

Doping the pain with break-dance and singing,
She drew fearfully close to the twisted shadows of Orpheus’ land,
Losing almost rhyme or reason in that ice cold drama of defeat.

Waking up with a start, I see myself drunk.
With pity imprisoned.
Is this all there is? Who writes the script?
Am I not the one choosing my path,
Because of choices given?
Who can barricade my road to freedom?
What can block my view to clearer vision -
Where I can be as I began -
Burning love and hope into my heart -
As crucial as breathing?
Or become dust dancing in sunlight.

Still longing — I taste challenges and fears.

My house has doors… coming within reach:
Bursting through I step into rooms awash with light -
Where previously death had stood.

Moving on is art without end -
Searching out treasures that stay.

Yet how many gates were locked before,
When loving trust broke into putrid disappointment?

Where is the gap — infinitely small — leading to purpose?
Or were my gaping wounds crusting over the door handle,
Of wonder?

Who is this man on the cross? Crying: `Father, forgive!’
And taking me to the end of my wits I see nothing
But grace.

Now, at times I meet people like Words, writing life into my bones.
And on the field of my heart, once ploughed bitter with grief -
Grow shoots of magnetic joy.

Heidi Weller, born in Dresden, 1944

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