The First Green Thorn

I returned
expecting only stone.

The same arch.
The same hollow.
The same bouquet
browned at the edges
like a prayer
left too long
in the weather.

I had learned
the discipline of kneeling.

I had learned
how to make peace
with the wrong place.

There is a strange holiness
in returning
to what cannot answer.

There is a strange faith
in speaking
to silence
until silence becomes
less empty.

But this morning,
at the foot of the cenotaph,
where the rain had gathered
in the crack
between two stones,

something had risen.

Not a flower.

Not yet.

Only a thorned green stem,
small enough
to be missed
by anyone
who came looking
for a miracle.

It leaned toward the light
with the awkward courage
of a thing
that had not been told
it was impossible.

I almost wept
from fear.

Grief I knew.
Absence I knew.
The old wound
had become a room
I could enter
without striking a match.

But life—
life arriving
without permission,
life answering
when I had stopped
asking,
life wearing thorns
before blossoms—

this was a more terrible mercy.

For if something grows here,
then I must change.

If the stone has cracked,
then I cannot spend forever
calling it final.

If roots have found me,
if green has entered
the vocabulary of my mourning,
then perhaps I have been wrong
about the dead.

Perhaps not all that is buried
is finished.

Perhaps not all that is empty
is abandoned.

Perhaps the former self
does not return
as the boy who believed,
but as the wound
that has learned
to shelter a seed.

I touched the stem
and blood rose
from my finger.

So this, too,
is resurrection:

not the absence of pain,
but pain made porous
to light.

Not the grave undone
all at once,
but a thorn
breaking through stone,

a small green alphabet
beginning again

where the epitaph
ran out of words.

The Cenotaph Triad

The Cenotaph

The Roots Beneath the Stone

The First Green Thorn

The Root Beneath the Stone

I thought the stone was final.

I thought the name carved there
was the last word
the earth would allow.

I thought absence
had a kind of authority,
as if an empty place
could speak with the voice of God
and say,
No farther.

But last night,
beneath the monument,
something moved.

Not the dead.
Not the lost.
Not the boy exactly,
nor the song,
nor the face before sorrow
taught it its new expression.

Something thinner than memory,
but stronger than grief.

A root.

Pale as a finger
beneath the dark soil,
blindly seeking
what the heart had forgotten
how to want.

It did not knock.
It did not rise
with trumpets or thunder.
It did not roll the stone away.

It only pressed
against the underside
of what I had mistaken
for an ending.

All these years
I had been kneeling
before emptiness,
bringing flowers
to a place
that could not receive them.

But perhaps the flowers knew
what I did not.

Perhaps their stems,
cut and dying,
were still fluent
in the old language of return.

Perhaps every grief
I laid down there
became compost.

Perhaps every tear
sank farther
than my prayers.

Perhaps the thing I mourned
was not buried elsewhere
after all,
but traveling underground,
passing through houses
that no longer stand,
fields grown over
with strange weeds,
the silence after a voice
has vanished.

I wanted resurrection
to arrive upright,
whole,
recognizable.

I wanted the former self
to come walking back
wearing the same face,
carrying the same bright belief,
singing the song
exactly as it was
before the world interrupted.

But roots do not return
as branches.

Seeds do not rise
as seeds.

What comes back
comes changed,
darkened by earth,
fed by what has fallen,
tender where it once was proud.

So I will come again
to the cenotaph.

I will bring flowers.

I will kneel.

But I will listen now
not for the dead
inside the stone,
not for the old name
to answer me,

but for the small green pressure
beneath everything,

the mercy
working in secret,

the hidden life
that does not ask
whether the grave was marked correctly,

only whether there is still
somewhere in me

a little soil

left open.

The Cenotaph Triad

The Cenotaph

The Roots Beneath the Stone

The First Green Thorn

Looking back at these images, I am instantly transported to the time from late 2022 to mid-2024 when Aalborg was my home. It’s me here, taking it all in, reflecting on those days. Even though that period of my life was a hard one, I still remember Aalborg with so much joy. It truly is a lovely city, and these sights always bring a warmth to my heart.

It begins at Toldbod Plads, where history meets the Limfjord. Standing by the historic facades near the cozy John Bull Pub, you can truly feel the city’s harbor soul. But my heart always belonged to the Øgadekvarteret neighborhood and the presence of Sankt Markus Church.

I vividly remember the quiet strolls in Østre Anlæg, where the church stood as a majestic landmark, mirroring its elegant tower in the still water of the lake—a moment of pure architectural serenity amidst everyday life.

Even on a cold winter mornings, looking out over the snow-covered courtyard in the neighborhood, the church tower would peek over the rooftops like a faithful guardian.

These were the views that defined my home: a beautiful backdrop to a challenging time, and a city I will always remember with love.

#Memories #AalborgHome #SanktMarkusKirke #ToldbodPlads #OestreAnlaeg #Denmark #PoeticReflection #DanishArchitecture #WinterInDenmark #Home #StreetPhotography #VisitAalborg #2022to2024

Sticks and Stones Might Build a Village

https://dreamspacestudio.net/sticks-and-stones-might-build-a-village/

Toki Pona
Валериан Иванов | 2020

https://stihi.ru/2020/01/03/7390

#TokiPona #Russian #PoeticReflection #Losi #anno2020