At the fork in the road, you pause.

Fate brings you choices

, and pain walks beside them.

Marcia, you see it—

Your back is against an accelerating ruin.

Two paths before you:

One carries Satan’s nightmare,

which the world writes off as indulgence.

The other blooms with fire upon its wounds,

where greatness may be allowed to appear

as the sea rises in rage—

and all of it asks you

to annotate it with reason.

Mortals are promised eternity.

Yet when you see through everything,

when you peel reason layer by layer,

you discover it brings nothing;

only grief pours itself out freely.

Only when the stars no longer cover the night

will I proudly speak in defense of every mortal.

Only when greatness no longer needs a border—

despite the debaters in the square,

the applauding crowd in the theater,

the praying hands in the temple—

all of them born already toward ruin—

Life will blaze.

Even if the stage collapses at its climax,

There we will live to the limit,

Even the tombstone pitying this life:

“Here lies her soul,

one choice,

one who, having everything,

lowered the curtain.”

If we were to meet again

in heaven where nothing ends—

If God is ever alive,

If every man was born in sin—

Then there is nothing to regret.

When right turns wrong

and sin becomes the crown—

If we could ever live again,

Why would we kill?

Why should we cry?

If love never ends,

There is nothing to fear,

nothing to hide.

if one day we die

With divinity by our side,

if all souls unite

in heaven once again,

I would pray,

and I would be alive.

If there is love,

there must be hate.

If all must be decided,

then I will seize it till I die.

But if I could ever hold

the burst of joy,

then I would fight.

It is laughter we need—

without reason,

without fear.

It is joy that cures,

it is love that heals.

We are born in sin,

yet we are gifted.

We walk on cement,

yet a lane opens behind.

If you are the lucky one,

then you must be kind—

for divinity is never ours to own.

We kill because we wish to decide,

but none of us was born to be defined.

There would be no solitude,

and there would be no crime,

if we could only hear

the sounds of joy,

the sounds of delight,

the sounds of hate,

the sound of pain.

Then there would be nothing to regret,

for our souls remain open

to the mercy of God.

If it is sunshine we feel,

if it is wine we brew,

if it is Christmas that unites us—

we are born in sin

but leave as gifted.

If it is food we enjoy,

if it is family and friends,

we should call it grace, not crime—

for this is how we are lifted:

with hope,

with kindness.

If one day we stand

in heaven side by side—

no one owed,

and no one blamed—

then do it for me,

if you are the luckier one.

There would be no blame,

and no hate.

There is something

we must believe,

though no one can decide,

and no one can know.

If one day all ends

except the soul,

except the lines—

then each must decide

how to live,

and what to live for.

If all souls unite

in heaven once again—

why should we cry?

Why would we lie?

On the chance page,

sunlight will never fall again.

The crossing angles,

no longer sharp,

have lost their brightness.

Heavy snow descends

into the onrushing summer,

and beneath the roses

a broken heart blooms.

And then,

in the reverse direction of memory,

he stumbled

on last night’s clock.

How long has the mirror refused

to look straight into my eyes?

How long has the sky gone unscarred

by its bent reflection?

How long has time been withheld

the searing mark of its brand?

I don't know, where I am going.

Above me falls a sky in fragments,

dropping with the rain,

blending into that unspoken,

stained shade of violet,

then edged sharply

by a bruise of brown and yellow.

Beyond, the black dissolves

into a wash of indigo,

with lamps, ships,

and buildings barely discernible—

all sealed, for an instant,

in the backward glance of an eye.

That night was bright.

He could see the half-fading stars,

He could see the moon.

That day, the sunlight was clear,

The trees stood vivid.

Only the sound of the wind remained,

and the clouds

moving quickly on.