Today the perfect courtesy of the flowers
bewitched my day. They shared their beauty
with me as I dived into a book just to escape
from the windmills of my mind.
I felt them blooming in the dark acorns of
my calloused heart, anchoring deep inside:
roots of hope and peace, fields of tomorrow.
Do I still have time to know all my mysteries?
Can I write a different story for this character
living in my soul?
Is it possible to be more subject than a simple
object in love's hands? Maybe feel again that
ridiculous happiness of being in love.
(Maybe)
Why do I feel so comfortable among the thorns?
The roses were so quiet in the book.
I was breathing, there was life. I could call it life.
Why do I only see what is immutable?
For some time I touched the face of those flowers:
They awakened my seeds, they split me up in two.
I was the distance that separated us, the silence
hidden in the stars, the essence before the existence.
I was the absolute nothingness.
Those pictures swallowed my thoughts
and spoke softly that the journey,
the fantastic journey of life was still
mine.
I still have more one acrobacy:
rise and spin over and over again
till I could feel no more this love,
this horrible pain, this silent confirmation
of my defeat.
And I danced more one time along the high threads
of my poems ever suspended between
my heart and soul.
Karla Bardanza
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