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<blockquote style="position: relative; padding-left: 55px;"><section><a href="https://mastodon.social/users/HistoPol/statuses/111091400657201444">HistoPol (#HP) 🥥 🌴 (histopol@mastodon.social)'s status on Tuesday, 19-Sep-2023 19:44:11 JST</a><a href="https://mastodon.social/@HistoPol" title="histopol@mastodon.social"><img src="https://gnusocial.jp/avatar/44595-48-20221221005726.webp" width="48" height="48" alt="HistoPol (#HP) 🥥 🌴" style="position: absolute; left: 0; top: 0;">HistoPol (#HP) 🥥 🌴</a><div><a href="https://mastodon.social/@HistoPol/111091259559582478" rel="in-reply-to">in reply to</a><ul><li><li><a href="https://gnusocial.jp/user/116884" title="si_irini@mastodon.social">si_irini</a></li><li><a href="https://gnusocial.jp/user/133553" title="evelynefoerster@swiss.social">Eve :verified:</a></li><li><a href="https://gnusocial.jp/user/133554" title="mina@swiss-talk.net">Mina</a></li></ul></div></section><article><p><a href="https://swiss.social/@evelynefoerster">@evelynefoerster</a> <a href="https://swiss-talk.net/@Mina">@Mina</a> <a href="https://mastodon.social/@si_irini">@si_irini</a> <a href="https://mastodonapp.uk/@MaJ1">@MaJ1</a> </p><p>So, halbe Stunde ist doch ganz o.k. für einen ersten Entwurf :):</p></article><footer><a rel="bookmark" href="https://gnusocial.jp/conversation/2072334#notice-4077300">In conversation</a><time datetime="2023-09-19T19:44:11+09:00" title="Tuesday, 19-Sep-2023 19:44:11 JST">about a year ago</time> <span>from <span><a href="https://gnusocial.jp/notice/4077300" rel="external" title="Sent from gnusocial.jp via ActivityPub">gnusocial.jp</a></span></span><a href="https://gnusocial.jp/notice/4077300">permalink</a><h4>Attachments</h4><ol><li><label><a rel="external" href="https://gnusocial.jp/attachment/1540354">The Night Screams
The night screams,
the thoughts roar, deafening the night,
Swept away by the torrent of emotions,
plunged down the thundering cataract of despair.
Dead silence now encompasses everything.
And even though the heart screams with bursting lungs,
Your ears cannot hear it anymore,
because you have been carried onwards like driftwood.
My hand could not hold onto yours any longer,
because you let go of it,
bereft of the breath that I once again wanted to instill you with.
The River of Time inexorably sweeps you away.
I open the mouth to scream,
but no sound leaves my lips,
because one single sound could be like salt into your torn-open wounds.
And thus, I swallow the sounds again.
The sounds feel like grains of salt with razor-sharp edges.
Each sip carving my throat from the inside.
And yet, there is no blood, 
Because the heart has lost its rhythm.
The salt in my eyes and the salt bags of my pent-up words,
turn into acid in my body.
These silent words I sacrifice,
So that your wounds may heal and close.
They are my gift to you.©HistoPol</a></label><br><a href="https://files.mastodon.social/media_attachments/files/111/091/399/226/703/713/original/94ffd8117d84d02d.png" rel="external">https://files.mastodon.social/media_attachments/files/111/091/399/226/703/713/original/94ffd8117d84d02d.png</a></li></ol></footer></blockquote>

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HistoPol (#HP) 🥥 🌴 (histopol@mastodon.social)'s status on Tuesday, 19-Sep-2023 19:44:11 JSTHistoPol (#HP) 🥥 🌴
in reply to
@evelynefoerster @Mina @si_irini @MaJ1
So, halbe Stunde ist doch ganz o.k. für einen ersten Entwurf :):
In conversationabout a year ago from gnusocial.jppermalink
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1. The Night Screams The night screams, the thoughts roar, deafening the night, Swept away by the torrent of emotions, plunged down the thundering cataract of despair. Dead silence now encompasses everything. And even though the heart screams with bursting lungs, Your ears cannot hear it anymore, because you have been carried onwards like driftwood. My hand could not hold onto yours any longer, because you let go of it, bereft of the breath that I once again wanted to instill you with. The River of Time inexorably sweeps you away. I open the mouth to scream, but no sound leaves my lips, because one single sound could be like salt into your torn-open wounds. And thus, I swallow the sounds again. The sounds feel like grains of salt with razor-sharp edges. Each sip carving my throat from the inside. And yet, there is no blood, Because the heart has lost its rhythm. The salt in my eyes and the salt bags of my pent-up words, turn into acid in my body. These silent words I sacrifice, So that your wounds may heal and close. They are my gift to you. ©HistoPol
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