iron gate

Just as the iron gate is willing to open, rust have tortured the hinges; dry blood makes opening and closing so hard to do. Its dark color is not appealing to the eyes unlike the fruit Eve had plucked from the branch of the tree of good and evil. I know she was just tempted, yet, she took it. Also, even its scent is rancid as if all the beautiful whiff of flowers and morning dews are taken away from the air.

Poor gate, I should have approached you days ago to witness your decaying state, should have touched you to feel the wounds that leave you nothing more but scars and dust. But right now, all I have done is speak of these thousand words only the deaf can hear.

They say you are fine, just all right, because the motes surrounding you have never left. This makes me happy—as happy as the days when I usually came in and out of you, swung your stiff being into this kind of openness only you and me can embrace. Motes, these little motes, are fortunate for in your idleness they have stayed and lingered. I just wish I am one of them, those tiny motes floating around you, illuminated by the sun in the morning and the moon in night time, so that I will live with you dancing in the air, singing an unheard song in everlasting happiness.

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