All by Anceliga Andström
The doctors think I have gone mad, but that is not true at all. My mind is perfectly clear, like a glass roof after rain. I know there is no reasonable explanation for the things happening inside this house. That is why I refuse to speak about them, and C. I do not want to utter her name fully, even on this paper, for I fear it may only attract more things to happen.
“You are good! Just relax and write what comes to your mind!” say they. How am I supposed to write from my mind when it is currently calmer than the last hour of the day?
Upon one summer’s evening, in a ruin garden
I was writing a poem
Of loneliness
And many other feelings
That rage inside my immortal self
When I look at you
into your eyes, which are kissed
by the goddess Aphrodite herself
I cannot help but to feel at ease
Freezing,
everything around us has been buried under the softness,
the delicateness of longing for endless summers
For the memories of light, warm touches under the Sun
The last time I saw you, you were lying there, next to her/My Mother, the one who had never perceived me or any of my sisters/I guess that is why I wish to spend all my time in the cold/In the darkness surrounding my thoughts, and the unknown lands between this world/And the next--
“It was quiet, as usual. Even my own breathing seemed to have disappeared. At least that would have been what another soul would have thought, had they laid here next to me.”