|
蝶影輕過 |
Butterfly drifting— |
蝶過無聲
Easter Monday
The stone is still rolled back—
but no one is watching now.
Yesterday held the miracle
like a breath too bright to keep;
today, the air has settled
into something quieter,
more difficult to name.
No trumpets.
No angels rehearsing light.
Only the ordinary returns—
cups rinsed at the sink,
shoes by the door,
a sky that refuses spectacle.
And yet—
something has shifted its weight
inside the body.
Not faith, exactly.
Not joy, either.
More like a door
left unlatched
in a house you thought was sealed.
You move through rooms differently,
touching the same walls
as if they might answer back.
The dead do not rise twice,
and still—
you listen.
There is a softness now
to the way silence holds you,
less like absence,
more like a hand
that does not insist.
Easter has passed
into its echo—
and you remain,
carrying the afterlight
in the small, unguarded places,
where even doubt
feels almost
like belief.
Monday Off
No graft today, I stretch and yawn,
Let sunlight creep across the lawn.
I sip me brew, take all me time—
A Monday off feels pure sublime.
Easter — The Morning That Refuses Closure
They go with oils—
carefully measured grief
carried in small, breakable vessels.
Mary Magdalene walks first,
not because she is unafraid,
but because love has already undone her once.
Mary keeps near—
not leading,
not behind—
as if she has learned
how to remain
when everything else departs.
And Salome—
quiet, watchful—
holding the question no one wants to ask aloud:
who will move what we cannot?
Morning has not yet decided
to be light.
The air still carries
Friday in its mouth.
They speak in fragments—
half-formed sentences,
as if language itself
has learned to tread carefully around loss.
Then—
the stone is already gone.
Not broken,
not shattered—
simply…
no longer where it was meant to remain.
This is how it begins:
not with triumph,
but with dislocation.
Inside—
no body.
Only space
where certainty used to lie.
I know this place.
The way absence can feel
more present
than anything it replaces.
A figure waits—
not blazing,
not terrible—
just enough
to disturb the shape of reality.
“Why do you seek—”
but the question does not finish,
because it enters them
before it can be spoken whole.
Risen.
Such a word—
too large for the mouth,
too alive for the grave.
And yet,
it does not close the wound.
It opens it wider—
into something that breathes.
They do not rejoice at once.
They tremble.
Because resurrection
is not comfort—
it is a rearrangement
of everything we thought
could not be undone.
I feel it now—
not as light,
but as a subtle refusal
in the dark places of me
that once accepted endings
as final.
Tell me—
if even death
cannot keep what it claims,
what will you do
with a love
that returns
without asking permission?
Petals, Unkept
|
櫻花一落 |
cherry blossoms fall— |
Holy Saturday
The world lies folded in a breathless tomb,
A silence pressed against the edge of light.
The air is thick with unfulfilled perfume,
A vigil held between the dark and bright.
No footsteps stir the dust of mortal ground;
The city sleeps beneath its shroud of stone.
Yet in the deep, a hidden pulse is found—
A stirring where the buried are not lone.
He walks the caverns sorrow cannot name,
Through halls where ancient shadows cling like frost.
His presence moves like fire without flame,
A warmth that gathers all the broken lost.
So Holy Saturday becomes the seam—
Where death unravels, thread by thread, toward dawn’s first gleam
Spring by the Lomond
The Lomond gleams in springtime air,
Wi’ safter winds that wander fair.
The birks shine green by shore and brae—
A quiet joy begins tae play.
The Hour That Stays
It is not the nails
that hold him—
it is the consent
to remain.
The sky does not break at once.
It tightens, slowly,
like breath withheld too long,
like a truth no one wants to finish saying.
I stand at a distance
I pretend is reverence—
but it is fear,
the kind that watches love
and does not intervene.
There is a body
made into threshold.
Not symbol—
not yet.
Still warm,
still bearing the memory of touch,
of mouths that spoke his name
as if it could never end.
And yet—
the ending comes
not as a cry,
but as a yielding
so complete
it unravels the air.
“Forgive—”
even now,
even here,
where the world has narrowed
to wood,
to blood,
to the unbearable clarity
of being seen
and not spared.
I feel it under my ribs—
that terrible mirror:
what does it mean
to love
and not turn away
when it costs everything
that can be taken?
The earth shifts—
not in violence,
but in recognition.
Something is finished.
Something refuses to be.
The veil—
yes, we say it tears,
but I think
it simply gives up
its pretense of separation.
Nothing stands between now.
Not innocence,
not distance,
not the careful stories
we tell to soften the wound.
Only this—
a silence
so full
it presses against the bones.
Tell me—
when even God
chooses not to descend
but to remain
inside the breaking—
what part of us
still believes
we are untouched?
Between Breaths
|
靜到無聲 |
stillness settles— |
What Is Given, What Remains
The room is small enough
to hold every breath—
and still, something waits
just beyond what we can name.
Oil and dust cling to the evening.
Hands—
so many hands—
that have taken,
blessed,
betrayed without knowing
the exact hour of their turning.
He does not lift a crown.
Only bread.
Simple as hunger.
Breakable as trust.
And in that quiet fracture
something passes between them—
not seen,
not proven,
but entering
like warmth into cold fingers.
I have known this before:
the way a body can become
offering
without spectacle,
without witness,
only the soft, irreversible
yes
of being consumed
by love.
“Take—”
the word rests
like a pulse in the mouth,
unfinished until answered.
What is given
does not diminish.
What is taken
does not satisfy.
Still—
we reach.
Wine follows—
dark, remembering the vine,
remembering the slow patience
of sweetness becoming ache.
He calls it blood.
And no one refuses.
I feel it—
that trembling consent
we carry in secret:
to be filled
and undone
in the same breath.
Outside,
the night gathers its witnesses.
Inside,
the table becomes
something else—
not wood,
not ritual,
but a threshold
where absence begins
its long work
inside presence.
Tell me—
when the body is given
and the silence after is deeper than before,
what remains of us
that is not already
being shared?
海息
|
海輕呼吸 |
Sea draws a soft breath— |
Holy Wednesday
The night grows close around the whispered door,
A breath of silver on a traitor’s tongue.
The coins lie waiting on the table’s floor,
Cold moons that gleam where darker thoughts are sprung.
A footstep falters in the lantern’s glow,
A heart once faithful trembles toward its fall.
No thunder marks the moment of the blow—
Just quiet hands that reach, then lose their call.
The garden dreams of sorrow yet to break,
Its olive branches heavy with the air.
The world holds still, as if afraid to wake
To find that trust has turned to thin despair.
Thus Holy Wednesday holds its fragile breath—
A hinge of time that hums with coming grief.
My 3DXChat life 