There Are No Locks on the Door

In the Pine Forest

I entered the pine forest,

and gently played with that little squirrel.

I picked a few flowers,

then set out searching for a door.

Is such a search even worthwhile

when it is all absurd?

There are no locks upon the door—

the place is filled with light.

And the sunlight shines brighter still,

while the light within my heart blooms brighter.

The road is long,

yet there are no locks upon the door.

Who will open the door for me?

Could there be a magical fairy,

like the fairy of dreams,

or Cinderella’s godmother?

Is Santa Claus still somewhere near,

to gift me a few silver keys?

Or perhaps a giant

who could carry me between his fingers,

like a feather,

like a precious gift?

I am nothing but some of my stories,

a handful of fairy tales.

I am the friend of the Seven Dwarfs

and Snow White.

I am Tom, searching for his father

in the heights of the Alps,

and Jean Valjean,

the sorrowful soul of Les Misérables.

I am the magnificent Shakespeare,

and through breaths of smoke

his image appears—

the pipe,

and a few shirts.

I still tell stories to children,

and laugh like flowers.

I paint, in the color of love,

upon the mirrors of waiting.

My heart is still white,

like a pearl within an oyster.

I am the lady of the house,

my dresses embroidered with colors,

my fragrance enchanting,

a scent from Dior,

and my fruit is pomegranate.

Like wild berries, I was born

to live among gardens and rivers.

I scatter bouquets of my hair

across the plains and hills.

My glory has returned to bloom,

so welcome,

welcome to the most beautiful of destinies.

Nadra — Monday, 5 October 2026