Darja Petrin

“NOVEMBER

Now chill & grey November
Come slowly o'er the plain,
Drearily the winter wind
Sings songs of future pain.

Wrapped closely in deep grey,
She scarcely will let pass
A little ray of sun
To cheer the sodden grass.

She scatters with her hand
The leaves dried up and brown,
The few that yet remain
From gay October's crown.

Her eyes and dark and sad,
Sad for the dying year,
And often in the mist
There falls a silent tear.

Beneath a cheerless sky
The trees are standing bare,
The fog has risen thick
And she is no more there.”
― Beatrice Crane

“In the church I felt really angry when all the people came to shake our hands. This was the morning before the day of the funeral. We were sitting in the front row. We’d never seen these people when she was alive. I was angry they hadn’t helped us. Or her. I didn’t know who half of them were. And the ones I knew made me feel angrier. They’d known. Not the details. But they’d known. And they hadn’t done a thing, but came now to shake our hands and tell us how sorry they were for our loss. I was tempted to ask, Which loss in particular? We’ve more chance of actually raising our mother from the dead some Easter Sunday than ever getting back what we really lost. Which is ourselves, years before now.”
― Sinead O'Connor, Rememberings

“They broke my heart and they killed me, but I didn't die. They tried to bury me, they didn't realize I was a seed.”
― Sinead O'Connor

“I took a walk this morning. And as I did, I wished that an awakening world would see opportunities in this day that it did not see when it went to bed last night. And I further wished that when it went to bed at the close of this day, it did so with enough hope for a thousand mornings of opportunity.”
― Craig D. Lounsbrough