AND GOD IS SILENT AT FOUR IN THE MORNING
I am still here,
the same drink in the same glass,
in the same hand that trembles now.
At four in the morning
even God does not answer.
And if He did,
He would probably say:
“Damn it, old girl —
you were never exactly saint material.”
And He would be right.
Fifty-nine years,
and I still haven’t learned
how to say enough.
Life deceived me,
but I still
left it a tip.
Poetry by Maria Deyana
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Written on 2026-05-15 at 18:42
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