The day of reckoning

When you ask I will have to answer. You know that. And I know you saw me ducking for cover. As cowards do.

I know what you are going to ask. About the girl in a peach-coloured dress. What have I done with her?

You left her with me that summer morning when the white lilac was in a full bloom. So wide its branches brushed against our front windows.

What happened to the girl?

She left, I tried.

Left, you repeated.

Black-birds cried over the stubble-field.

Where did she go?

She went to the city to write poems.

Did you let her?

How could I? Only few like poetry.

What did you do?

There was work in the factories and offices. Good work. Regular pay.

Did she love?

Some she did. But not for long. She wore lacy dresses and lay under some drunkards for fistful of dreams.

What happened then?

The war came. Houses burned and people died. We were scared. Girl and I.

Where is the girl now?

She crossed the ocean with the southern star above it.

And you?

But you are no longer waiting for answers.

Because you know I cannot find the girl under the southern star. The girl in a peach-coloured dress, long braid bobbing down her back. Running under the plum trees heavy with fruit. Into your wide open arms.

We are almost in the middle of the stubble-field. I wish it to be over. I know it was me who sold the girl. For regular salary and trinkets from markets. And did not hold her when she cried.

I wish you will throw the stone now.

But you did not.

Fog lifted. While we wept in the middle of the stubble-field. You and I.

In the foreign land with nowhere to duck for cover.

It was the day of reckoning. And we were not ready.







Author: Daniela

Reader, Writer, Mother, Freethinker, Habitual Day Dreamer, Blogger - Sharing Ideas, Poetry, Prose, and Conversations on the Lantern Post!

42 thoughts on “The day of reckoning”

  1. Very powerful words here and these especially struck a chord:

    “We are almost in the middle of the stubble-field. I wish it to be over. I know it was me who sold the girl. For regular salary and trinkets from markets. And did not hold her when she cried.”

    You write about many a woman’s story… lovely read Daniela


  2. I just need/want to go back to the very start of your blog to understand everything.

    I know that is an almost impossible task. So will just read and enjoy from here and once in a while peek back.


    1. Truth has this peculiar quality of presenting itself in such sharp forms to shake us in our steps … so we dispense of fears and continue to seek it!
      You know I always love when you visit … smile over Dubrovnik for me my dear!
      Thank you,


  3. wow! utterly mesmerized by your words,as the above person wrote it has far to much truth. i think every woman can relate to this.


      1. I did not say that you have been fooled … not at all! Think about it … what kind of a writer would I be if I do not use threads of real life to weave them into words that tell a story from it? There is no such things as ‘pure fiction’ or ‘pure non-fiction’ even if many people argue that there is.
        Take Care,


    1. Thank you very much for reading and commenting.
      I believe the photo of the stubble-field originated in Croatia (friend of mine sent it to me).
      Kind Regards,


  4. Daniela, this one is very painful to read – it tugs at the heart. You have packed so much raw emotion into it! It makes me want to know where the girl in the peach-coloured dress is!


  5. absolutely beautiful, daniela. i think that girl in the peach-dress appears each time you look deeply into the crack of a mirror. perhaps, in the shadows of the ‘who’ you are now… and she writes her poetry without fear or worry of duty each time you pick up your magnificent pen and breathe life into her shining soul. i see her smiling and laughing, face to the sun, long braid dancing in the scented breeze. well written and so captivating. kudos


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