Russian Roulette of the Heart” image done by ai
Ella no estaba en una guerra…
pero cada día se sentía como una.
No había armas visibles,
pero había decisiones, palabras, silencios…
y cada uno era una bala.
Él jugaba sin mirar atrás.
Giraba el tambor como si fuera un juego,
como si el corazón de ella
no estuviera dentro.
Cada vez que hablaba,
ella contenía la respiración.
Click.
No pasó nada.
Un día más.
Una esperanza más.
Pero el siguiente…
Bang.
No era un disparo real,
era una palabra,
una ausencia,
una forma de amar que dolía.
Y aun así…
ella seguía sentada frente a él,
sin levantarse,
sin escapar.
Porque el amor
la había convencido
de que quedarse
también era una forma de sobrevivir.
Pero en el fondo…
ella sabía la verdad:
No estaba jugando para ganar.
Estaba jugando
hasta desaparecer.
........
.........
....
The Wheel of Fate
In a chamber hushed by sorrow’s breath,
there sat a maid betwixt love and death.
No blade was drawn, no arrow flown,
yet war had claimed her heart alone.
Before her stood a silent knight,
with hollow eyes and fleeting sight;
within his hand, a fateful wheel,
whose turning none could halt nor heal.
He smiled as though it were but play,
a fleeting jest to pass the day,
yet in that game her soul was bound,
where hope and dread together wound.
He turned the wheel—once, twice, thrice more—
and set the course of what before
had lived as love, now frail and thin,
a trembling light grown faint within.
“Close thine eyes,” the whispers came,
“and trust in fate, accept the game.”
She bowed her head, though filled with fear,
for love had chained her spirit here.
Click.
No doom that turn did come to pass,
but still her breath was held like glass.
A fragile peace, a borrowed grace—
yet sorrow lingered in that space.
Again he turned.
Bang.
Not steel nor flame did strike her through,
but words that pierced and silence grew.
For sharper far than any blade
are wounds by loveless hands conveyed.
Yet still she stayed, nor chose to flee,
for love had robbed her will to be.
A captive to a cruel design,
she drank of pain as though divine.
Till deep within her heart she knew:
this game was wrought to see her through—
not unto life, nor victory’s breath,
but slow surrender unto death.
sob—
...........
.......
...
The Wheel of Fate
In a chamber hushed by sorrow’s breath,
there sat a maid betwixt love and death.
No blade was drawn, no arrow flown,
yet war had claimed her heart alone.
Before her stood a silent knight,
with hollow eyes and fleeting sight;
within his hand, a fateful wheel,
whose turning none could halt nor heal.
He smiled as though it were but play,
a fleeting jest to pass the day,
yet in that game her soul was bound,
where hope and dread together wound.
He turned the wheel—once, twice, thrice more—
and set the course of what before
had lived as love, now frail and thin,
a trembling light grown faint within.
“Close thine eyes,” the whispers came,
“and trust in fate, accept the game.”
She bowed her head, though filled with fear,
for love had chained her spirit here.
Click.
No doom that turn did come to pass,
but still her breath was held like glass.
A fragile peace, a borrowed grace—
yet sorrow lingered in that space.
Again he turned.
Bang.
Not steel nor flame did strike her through,
but words that pierced and silence grew.
For sharper far than any blade
are wounds by loveless hands conveyed.
Yet still she stayed, nor chose to flee,
for love had robbed her will to be.
A captive to a cruel design,
she drank of pain as though divine.
Till deep within her heart she knew:
this game was wrought to see her through—
not unto life, nor victory’s breath,
but slow surrender unto death.
sob—
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