The Bird

My friend scarifier draws pictures on skin, writing the stories that will always linger. He's cultivating it as a kind of sacred discipline, He's familiar with all its treats and features.
While cutting designs into skin with his blade, he demands to accept it with wisdom, in silence, Teaching the skill of voluntary pain, he's guiding it like a language, an art or a science.
And bloody wounds beneath his fingers in time turn into mysterious creatures, flowers and signs.

I live here in peace so far, I am studying the world of routine, self- control, restraint. Improving my mind exactly as straight as the cut lead along trembling human clay. I want to accept my pain without despair, watch it as one of the natural processes. I hope one day I would get the faith to deny its expanse, its power, and its purpose.

Because all is fulfilled with pain, and it's pretty scary – there's no escape, no help, no cure; no matter how much you cry, it will stay, no matter how far you go, it will follow you.
All is set with pain, it demands to obey. In addition to pain, there is no other experience.And so far I get up at dawn without complaints, I serve and pray, I am a diligent disciple.

God the Lord! Cut into me a bird, silver wings, from the beginning right,
Fearful of no storm, no hunger, nor ruining.
Cut and rub it with ink, make the colors so bright,
Cut it deeper and give it some time to heal.
Let it always be my reward,
Let it be the source of my never- ending power.
From a cold hell, where I'm falling down
One last moment before the darkness, it'll be pulling me out.