"The Resident of Pain"

I am not a blank page,

but the remains of a book which was not written and burned.

To me no explanation wants... I have no presumptions about necessitating explanation.

I am in this sound which has not softened.

and the features that have not been made to smile.

I do not tidy up my mess,

but leave it a monument of what I have experienced.

Any of my silences is a tale,

and everything in my eyes turns the temporal and superficial.

I am not a passer-by of pain...

but a resident of it,

I know it as I know my name...

And I purchase it as picking up an ugly fate.

I do not seek salvation,

or raise my head towards the sky.

I am the son of the heavy earth,

and sister of primeval solitude.

I already know something about darkness, and I shake my hands with it every single night and never tremble... and I know how to stare at it without asking to be lit... I am no beast that could be argued... but perceived... and feared.

By Luccian Layth