ANKICA ANCHIE - poetic cycle (Part 2)
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Part two
ANKICA ANCHIE - CROATIAN POET AND WRITER
EPILOGUE
When the final pages of this book close,
what remains is not an ending,
but a quiet, steadfast radiance:
testimony that spirit survives all its falls.
For the words you have read
are not merely poems-
they are signposts.
They are the anvil on which identity was forged,
and the ember that warmed the days
when the world had no understanding.
If you found a part of yourself within them,
then this book has fulfilled its purpose.
For poetry exists not to explain,
but to touch.
Not to conclude,
but to set free.
And what remains in you
after its final sentence-
that is its true home.
May the strength of the spoken and unspoken accompany you.
May the light between the lines accompany you.
And may it always remind you:
you survived,
and therefore you are unconquerable.
“A SONG ABOVE SONGS” /3/
“THE KINGDOM OF WOMAN”
I.
In the quiet of first light,
while the world still fears its own breath,
I saw you rise from darkness
like a star that learned to speak.
Your hands carried a light
you did not seek,
and your silence bore the weight
of the most ancient waters.
I said within myself:
“Behold the woman who walks between worlds
as if bridges were born within her.”
And your step touched me,
and I became a witness to that
which is born only once
in a time remembered by angels.
II.
You called love
not with your voice, but with your being.
And love answered you
like a wind recognizing its sea.
In your eyes
was the earth before the first raincloud,
and the sky before a bird named it.
Everything you looked upon
received meaning,
as if the world had waited
for your gaze to confirm it.
Your heart-
an ancient temple of flesh and light-
where every stone knew
for whom it was raised.
III.
When you spoke,
words fell like seed
that knows what it will grow from.
There was no haste in them,
no arrogance,
only wisdom
passed in whispers
through centuries.
Your voice,
neither gentle nor forceful,
but true,
opened doors
others had locked out of fear.
And then I knew:
strength is not in the one who destroys,
but in the one who lifts-
both self and others.
IV.
When you loved,
fire withdrew before you
like a student before a teacher.
For your passion
did not arise from desire,
but from knowing-
like a flame aware
of all it could burn,
yet choosing to warm.
Your body spoke
a language older
than any land that feeds us
and any sky that shelters us.
And I,
a child of dust,
recognized in you
something greater than time.
Not divine-
but true.
V.
And when your soul once
split under the weight of night,
the shards did not fall into darkness,
but shone
like stars seeking their place.
You gathered them without fear,
like a woman who knows
that nothing valuable is lost
when it breaks-
it only changes form.
And then it became clear:
your strength was born
in what wounded you,
and your greatness was born
in what you chose
despite everything.
VI.
And therefore I bless you,
woman of fire and smoke,
of salt and silence,
of wound and resurrection.
Your walk
is not of this world,
yet it heals it.
Your gaze
is not of this sky,
yet it opens it.
And your heart-
the one they tried to break
and which assembled itself-
has become a book
into which those will one day look
who seek a path
between darkness and light.
And they will say:
“This is the woman
who fell,
but rose-
and by that taught the world
how one becomes greater.”
