The matches of hope

If I close my eyes –
two butterflies in a jar,
bathed in the honey sunset,
and if I let my thoughts descend
in the bottomless tunnels of disbelief –
I will quietly fall asleep,
like the little match-seller,
dreaming of a beautiful future.

But I am awake.

With two hands, furrowed
with the veins of compassion,
I could hug the world.
I could light the matches of hope –
so frail,
so transitory in the wind.
With the love – the imperishable one,
I could raise
a motley Luna park from the pains.
I could shelter in my heart
the tattered wanderers –
thirsty for love
on the dusty roads of disbelief
and to embrace the drowning.

Do not fall asleep,
my sad hope,
shivering in the loneliness
of the indifferent streets.
Here – I present you my hands,
filled with matches,
enough to wake the world.


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