Tag Archives: whispered prayers

Broken Dawn ©️

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Inside the Rooster’s blood, worlds ignited before they were named, unfurling like fists breaking open into gardens stitched from lightning.

Each pulse wasn’t a beat — it was a cataclysm, a golden collapse, flooding empires into existence, soldiers born with crowns dissolving into parades across fields that shimmered with the memory of fields that had never been.

The beings there cracked themselves into form between one breath and the next — not stone, not flesh, not air — something sharper, something that remembered promises made in the blind white noise before the first star scratched its way open.

Cities tangled themselves into his veins, castles braided from the gravity of lost songs, temples buoyed on the hum where reality thins to a thread.

Each hymn was a blade:

Do not wake.

Do not wake.

Do not wake.

Because if the Rooster shifted, rivers would boil backwards into the mouths of mountains, rain would forget how to fall, names would bleach out of bones, and grief itself would burn until it could no longer remember the shape of sorrow.

The sorcerer-kings and poet-queens raced along capillary catwalks, bleeding thunder into the walls, weaving knots of breath and cedar and rain into braids tight enough to bind a god’s dream without tearing it apart.

They left gifts, frantic:

gardens breathing laughter too pure to ever wither,

suns folded out of silences brittle enough to slice dawn into ribbons,

waters hoarded from the wells where even hope had drowned.

Time inside the blood looped back on itself, tied into invisible knots only existence could trip over.

And while the Rooster slept —

we flickered.

We burned our tiny fires in the belly of a sleeping storm, sang songs to each other without knowing the language was borrowed, loved each other across the trembling mesh of a blood-dream that could never belong to us.

But now the threads are snapping.

The air behind the hours shivers.

The wrong noon yawns wider.

The heartbeat curls tighter, flinches like a dream about to become teeth.

In the crawl between tick and tock,

if you hollow yourself enough,

you will hear the last desperate river-song:

Do not wake.

Do not wake.

Do not wake.

Because if he stirs —

there won’t be darkness,

there won’t be ending,

there won’t even be forgetting.

There will only be the blank, perfect scream of never-having-been.

If I Were a Rich Man ©️

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There is a beauty that does not announce itself with a flourish, but rather seeps into the consciousness like a slow, warm drip of honey—golden, inevitable, and impossible to forget. It is the beauty of Jewish women, a beauty woven with history, brushed with the lingering incense of old-world melancholy, laced with the defiant glint of survival.

Ah, Jewish women. Their allure is not the thin, brittle kind that withers beneath the weight of time, nor the fleeting prettiness of store-bought charm. No, theirs is an ancestral beauty, a beauty steeped in old libraries and candlelit kitchens, in whispered prayers and sharp laughter, in eyes that have read tragedy and lips that can still sing. It is the softness of Sabbath light falling over a cheekbone sculpted by centuries, the knowing arch of a brow that has seen both exile and homecoming. It is the warmth of a hand that has braided challah and caressed a child’s forehead, the delicate fierceness of a woman who can argue law at dinner and soothe a fever at dawn.

They wear their beauty like a talisman, stitched with the voices of grandmothers who once crossed deserts and seas. It is in the cascade of curls that refuse to be tamed, in the curve of a shoulder that carries both burden and grace. They do not need to be told they are beautiful—they know. It is in the way they move, the way they love, the way they stand, not just for themselves but for generations before them.

And if you have ever been loved by a Jewish woman, truly loved, then you know: it is not a love of half-measures. It is a love that is given with both hands, pressed to your heart like a prayer. It is fierce, relentless, boundless. It is a love that will argue with you and fight for you, that will remember how you take your coffee and remind you to call your mother. It is a love that builds homes, that writes histories, that leaves a mark.

There are many kinds of beauty in this world. But the beauty of a Jewish woman—ah, that is something else entirely. That is a beauty that does not fade, does not bend, does not break. It lingers, like the taste of pomegranate on the tongue, rich, bittersweet, and everlasting.