Alltagsmagie

something_s we make

Halleluja

In churches and in classrooms
In hospitals and at our dinner table
In those tree tops, the tall ones
and the small and growing ones
In the current of the river
and in the summer dance of the clouds
In the mosses and grass on the hillside
and the footprints left in the sand
In the loaf my mother bakes
and the woollen socks my grandmother knits
and on that old wooden bench on the curb
where my father used to sit
with his cigar
In those raindrops crawling down my window
and your fingers crawling up my thigh
and your promise to stay for a while
In that mail box on the corner
every unwritten post card
and in every unanswered phonecall
In her piercing pink lipstick
and in every first kiss
and in the long lost virginity
In that love between two men
and every coming out
and every loving hug
In the ways my sisters laugh
and the ways your brothers cry
when nobody’s looking
In your two jobs
and your starving family
In my lateness
and my unshaven legs
and my impatient roar
In your sorrow and your pain
In my apology
In mistakes and in repentance
In the drunkyard’s promise of that last bottle
and the little girl’s wish to the tooth fairy
and in my poetry
In their last conversation
and our first
and God’s Word for us, his eternal promise
In every shooting on the roadside
and the revolver by your bedside
and the colors on either side
In the false hope for a better tomorrow
and those parents’ broken hearts
In every shooting star,
even the ones remaining unseen
and in the silver light of the moon
In every lie and every fear
In every hope and youthful dearing
In the midday heat and at midnight in the snow
In every plunge and every leap
In every twirl and every dip
and in all those fearful prayers
In the news and in the Bible
and in every unfinished cigarette
In those deserted streets
and crowded roads before me
In your wave good-bye
when I’m not looking
when I’m just walking away
and those rainy evenings at the train station
In his undone tie,
the lipstick on his collar,
and his swollen, tired feet
and her ringless, wrinkled hands
In their untouched bed sheets
and the longing looks at breakfast
In every sunset and every sunrise
and in the moments before dawn
and after every single winter
In the separation between sea and sky
and the eternity of every horizon
In the beat of every heart
and the breath of every mouth
In the longing of every letter
to come home again
finally
lie all the hallelujas,
our broken ones,
and carry us on, carry us on
toward the light
and one another
eventually.

About Marie-Sophie Guntram

Marie-Sophie is a language lover at heart and a linguist by training. She's currently seeking to make a living and, more importantly, a life.

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This entry was posted on August 16, 2014 by in writing some poetry.