Loss by Debrorah Aminifard

Everything that grew in my field has been harvested.

The ground lies barren,

Returned to dust.

Winter cold settles upon the land.


The winter season calls me to the deep quiet solitude of my innermost being,

To the still inner chambers of the broken heart.

In this winter season, I will not long for spring.

No, I will sink into the darkness, and I will rest in the deep solitude of nothingness.

I will be comforted by the deep peace that holds me like a child in the womb.

I will close my eyes and rest awhile.


In time, what has been emptied will be filled,

And then I will dance and sing,

I will dream and love,

And I will live vibrantly.


For my beloved, Mahmoud