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.


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


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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