It's ok to ask for help



"Tired of it all, tired of the rush of time, I need peaceful silence."

Migration by Saba

Oh, my Beloved, 

How in the gray of the chimney within the moist of the rain . . . 

I hear the throbbing of time as it’s slowly injected into the pathways of my chest. 

My heart turns gray as it burns a fire in its quest for water.

Longing for life as it stands still, slowly flickering away, erasing all that it held dear.

Disfigured and dismembered, I still feel the throbbing of time,

Its touch was as gnarled as my burnt fingertips.


Tired of it all, tired of the rush of time, I need peaceful silence. 

Thrust me aside to the magnificent green plains from the trains of relentless competition!

To the endless green grasses where the wind dances among the tresses of spring 

with an ever-green companion. With the dignified and gracious Earth humbly by my side.

Brotherly gathering of heroic branches, flying with the free dragonflies, singing with the pleasant insect sounds, and entertaining boundless travels with the dandelions.

The fearless breeze of time: So carefree with who it lets me be, such a dignified servant;

yet such a cruel mistress, always serving as a reminder of how long we all have.

"The strange presence of night has concealed the migration of the day."

Here, in quiet, I am restless; in laughter, gloomy; in safety, unsafe; and I am defeated to the ground. The child who left the paradise in joyful play has yet to find the green plain of dreams, the indigo sky, and the ever-radiant sun; I am shrieking for a new path back.

The strange presence of night has concealed the migration of the day. Its patterns are as obscure as the lines drawn onto my hand, resembling a faded past, a dream I can no longer ascertain.

The fearsome domain of doubt and indecision has paralyzed the fluency of my mind. 

The fearless breeze absent, as the mother of compassion has slapped its own face. 

Her hand was as fierce and malignant as the hands that cradled me.

In total disbelief, I stand still, monitoring my image in the mirror of age and mourning my losses.

Counting off all the number of ways I’ve failed the images that now resemble faded ghosts.

Each one an empty husk, strikingly painted onto a white portrait already on fire.


Within the throbbing of time, my heart stands still as it relentlessly reimagines the blessed days in hope of its resurrection. Attempting to forge a new identity out of the pits scorched by fire, I try to mend the disheveled pieces of my being. No longer can I distinguish the sensible path.

The attack of ambiguity has dried up my last drops of courage, and it, my current hell, is directing my gaze from a strange mirage to an imminent truth in the hope that I can find my Beloved and chant it again.