Poetry by Laura Izabela
Blood in the Earth
I.
There is blood in the earth.
There is blood, which with every move of the Sun, flows.
There is blood, which doesn’t belong to you and me. It is yellow.
There is blood, there is blood in the water. Someone speaks quietly.
There is blood which swims through your veins as we speak. It is hot.
You’re boiling to death with heart on your sleeve, kneeling.
My dear—it’s all happening right now. My loveliest—it’s always happening right now.
You turn into a frog and jump in a river as the Sun impregnates it with ideas.
The night is being murdered as the birds begin their song.
II.
The Moon is a flower of the sky. It is bright and willing to show you where you’ve come from if you were only willing to see it.
Oh, you’ve come so far, my child. You’ve come so far. There are scars on your fingertips from digging the way. You brave one.
I know, crying sometimes feels like gouging your eyes out which is the reality of things, which is reality, which is what we ignore. Change your eyes, they need to be looked at. Change your eyes, my child, they’re blind with tears. Don’t abandon them, they belong with you.
Your dark eyes of soil, they’ve seen suffering no human has ever dreamt of before. Your bright eyes of a lily, you’ve seen the light itself. Your rosy lips kissed Eternity on the mouth once. Don’t abandon them, they belong with you.
It is the mother singing lullabies now. It is the childless mother being silent, watching the Sun rise, sipping tea.
If you believe in roses you can see them bloom and admire their beauty. If you believe in roses, you may smell them.
A cross is a thing with feathers. A dead bird bleeding on your coffee table, saying its last fleeting goodbye.
I.
There is blood in the earth.
There is blood, which with every move of the Sun, flows.
There is blood, which doesn’t belong to you and me. It is yellow.
There is blood, there is blood in the water. Someone speaks quietly.
There is blood which swims through your veins as we speak. It is hot.
You’re boiling to death with heart on your sleeve, kneeling.
My dear—it’s all happening right now. My loveliest—it’s always happening right now.
You turn into a frog and jump in a river as the Sun impregnates it with ideas.
The night is being murdered as the birds begin their song.
II.
The Moon is a flower of the sky. It is bright and willing to show you where you’ve come from if you were only willing to see it.
Oh, you’ve come so far, my child. You’ve come so far. There are scars on your fingertips from digging the way. You brave one.
I know, crying sometimes feels like gouging your eyes out which is the reality of things, which is reality, which is what we ignore. Change your eyes, they need to be looked at. Change your eyes, my child, they’re blind with tears. Don’t abandon them, they belong with you.
Your dark eyes of soil, they’ve seen suffering no human has ever dreamt of before. Your bright eyes of a lily, you’ve seen the light itself. Your rosy lips kissed Eternity on the mouth once. Don’t abandon them, they belong with you.
It is the mother singing lullabies now. It is the childless mother being silent, watching the Sun rise, sipping tea.
If you believe in roses you can see them bloom and admire their beauty. If you believe in roses, you may smell them.
A cross is a thing with feathers. A dead bird bleeding on your coffee table, saying its last fleeting goodbye.
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Laura Izabela is a vagabond, writer and poet, currently living in London, UK. Not much to her name but a big coat, an infinite soul and some paper.
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