Thought

I would speak to someone
of what I once witnessed.
Those who loved me—
they fought with all their strength
to shield my honor.
 
Long have I sat reflecting:
near ones remained near,
in thought’s very marrow
thought itself lingered.
 
And after many years
I saw again those
for whom I alone was provision,
who pressed me to their chests
to preserve my fragile life.
 
What is there to think?
Better to speak to no one.
Falsehood and truth alike—
those who loved
gave everything.
 
In darkness I could sense
their shadows
hovering close,
so close, beside me,
their love—
false, true, both.
 
Yet thought itself
remains a cavern of night.
Sitting silently,
I lift my head
and see, at the threshold,
a man who despises
my very existence—
yet never failed
to save me.
 
To remain silent—
that is natural.
Love, trust, necessity—
all demand silence.
 
And still I wonder:
perhaps, another day,
he who has no need of me,
whom I myself
never needed,
will emerge again
from his safe recess,
to rescue me, as always.
 
In protest, he makes me think—
yet I, even now,
have never made him think.