L E N A

Enameled strength and layered weakness brewed in the morose convictions of the Threshold, from the wandering gazes flickering to memories long since banished or those far too fresh, sliding and toiling amongst the calm ignition of desolation and despondency. Lena’s eyes, unfailingly benevolent, watched the mare encased in shadow, in melancholy, adrift in the rich sea. How often she too could be like that, wrapped around the chains of yesterday instead of the platitudes of present – but always, eternally, everlasting, she chose the might of perseverance, of will, of deliverance to the shackles of withering pasthoods. Her pervading sweetness made the light of day wholesome, made the evenings comforting, made the daunting tides of tomorrow become intrepid dreams. But what had Chernobyl seen, what had she wrought, what had she preened and taken from her life before (because there was always a prior life that gleamed and prospered, diminished and relinquished that made them who they were, swallowing or blossoming) venturing into the wide expanse of this solace? What curved her into this sorrow, and what could alight her strings to the pathway of contentment and rapture? And was it wrong that she yearned to help provide that buoyancy, that gift to absolution, that polish to forgiveness? Midnight florets and veiled blossoms, reclaiming the luminescence if day, led away from the dimmest caverns to the opulence, to the brightness, of majesty and nobility, regality that couldn’t be found in the crisp fortitudes of history. How many times have we seen Hell, and still find that passage to virtue?

But Chernobyl asked about the herd, the old life destroyed and scattered, and Lena felt like she was a hypocrite, to wallow in the murky depths again, to cast her small form into the shallow waters of recent destruction. The pain lingered, a residual effect of loss, sacrifice and defeat, but gradually, that wound would close, and the hounding dogs of war would slip away from the terrible villainy she’d inflicted, conspired and wrought for naught. Her voice carried the quiet tune of haunting dulcets, croons that touched upon a victory obsolete, simplistic, no insight driven, no knowledge told – to delve deeper would be to lurch, plunge and flounder amongst the runes of destruction, mayhem and chaos all over again. Truly, she didn’t dare. “We were invaded.” And would the mare care about this? Would she laugh at how they’d lost? Would she complain about a world that couldn’t fend for itself? Would she refuse to come with her, to a weakened platitude of ruined castles? But oh, the things she could say, the hopes she could spark, the dreams she could embark upon, the force, the vigor, she could surmise – was it dashed now, because they had fallen once? Her gaze still held aloft upon the darkened femme, answering questions that continued to sprout from her lips (but had the words softened a degree, had they hastened to something warmer?), purpose, the purpose of the herd. That query Lena could answer with confidence, and renewal flickered in her heart, stirred in her lungs, weaving the smile back across her mouth, birds’ songs and flowers’ petals, soft, strong, and mighty. “We long to thrive again.” Her heart sculpted a whisper and sent it aloft, silent and dreaming - Don’t you too?