In a quiet town beneath the hills, Where the woods whisper their ancient thrills, Once a year on a moonlit night, Stars descend with ethereal light.On the solstice, dreams take flight, As townsfolk gather in soft twilight, Their hearts full of silent pleas, Wishes carried on a gentle breeze.
Evelyn stood on the edge of the crowd, With hopes unspoken, dreams unbowed, She watched as stars began to fall, A silver cascade that enchanted all.
Midnight chimed, the first star gleamed, A thread of light where wishes streamed, Voices rose, a murmured prayer, Each hope and dream laid bare.
With eyes closed tight, Evelyn sighed, A wish for love, for shadows to hide, Her voice a whisper, soft and shy, Released to the starlit sky.Stars above seemed to pulse and sway, Bathing the town in a magical array, And when their light began to fade, Evelyn felt a peace conveyed.
In the days that followed, subtle change, Acts of kindness, no longer strange, Old friends returned, new ones found, A sense of unity spread around.Evelyn found her courage bright, Steps toward dreams in newfound light, The magic wasn't just in stars, But in brave hearts with healing scars.
A year gone by, the night returned, In Evelyn’s heart, a lesson learned, Surrounded now by friends and cheer, She watched the stars, her mind clear.The magic lives in those who dare, To dream, to wish, to show they care, On the Night of Wishes, hearts unite, Beneath the stars, in gentle light.
About the Creator
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaa day ago in Poets
The Lesions of Devotion
Every day I set myself down on the freshly cut lawn and strip myself bare. I take my guitar and finger the frets and pick at the strings, listening for dissonance. My life is dissonance. I twist the tuning pegs until each string sounds bright. Then I kneel, calves pointing behind me, kneecaps facing forward. All exposed to the breeze. I close my eyes and play the melody.
By Paul Stewart3 days ago in Fiction
Comments (3)
Well done on the story.
The transformation and sense of unity that follow the Night of Wishes are beautifully depicted, thank you very much for sharing, love your works, hope to read more, subscribed.
So well written!