Where Sorrow Cannot Reach

I am afraid of sorrow.

Maybe everyone is.

But what I feel is different.

People fear sorrow for the sake of happiness.

I fear sorrow for the sake of sorrow itself.

Does darkness fear the light,

or does the light fear darkness?

Maybe darkness lives within the light,

only illuminated by it.

Sorrow does not touch me.

What touches me

is knowing that it exists.

I see sorrow differently from everyone else.

No, this is not my pride.

Perhaps it is my narrowness.

The colour of sorrow is not blue,

nor is it black.

To tell the truth,

sorrow has no colour at all.

Am I something new,

a stranger on an unknown road?

Or am I only the sorrow-loving imagination

of some poet,

drawn into a picture?

Have I lost myself somewhere,

searching for the way back?

Have I woven pain into a garland,

afraid of a new light?

Does the night,

awake in the darkness,

know our stories?

Are the falling stars

the tears in its eyes?

Does the wind,

wandering across distant lands,

tell everyone's story?

Or does its unspoken sorrow

fly away as storms?

I know,

I am different from all of them.

I am not the stormy wind of the day.

I am not the tears in the eyes of the night.

I am not some fallen feather.

But perhaps

I am the heavy air

trapped inside the chest.

Or the heartbeat

running without rest.

I am the sudden tear

that blurs the eyes.

Or the forehead

drawn together by a frown.

Still,

I know I am different.

I feel sorrow's presence, but never its touch..