You cannot tell me

You cannot tell me love is a cockroach
       if you haven’t seen it run across the floor
or convince me that freedom is a dove
       if you haven’t seen it fly past your window.

You cannot tell me sadness is a lamb
       if you haven’t seen it hanging in the slaughterhouse
or make me believe that forgiveness is a fish
       if you haven’t seen it swim like a ribbon in water.

You cannot tell me what I already know.
Love turns us into insects; we’re nothing more than fragile, crawling on the floor.
Sadness hangs after slaughter.  Sadness is a lamb 
eaten at Easter, and the day after.

But freedom is not a dove; forgiveness, not a fish.
If it were so – 

                       my lover would have sent me a dove
                       my lover would have given me a fish.

© Dimitra Xidous