Descent

I am falling into the arms of a chrysalis—
its curves and contradictions embrace me,
and I drift inward, in silence.
The shadows enfold me in their power.

I will love the silence.
I will love the mandala carved by pain.
I will love memory,
the music of the sea,
the rhythm of the tide,
the bubbles
bursting—
and all the wind carried away,
as if forever.

I will return to my vessel of clay
and wait
for the rains.

And meanwhile,
with a blindness 

that blossoms into inner sight,
I will remember the temples
of Egypt,
where we chanted
the sacred geometries
of being.

Could they be what brings the rain?

—Lorena Wolfman (2019, 2025)