Exiled in my own land

I build clouds and castles

In the air as I rub my hands

diving slowly into this


My state is transient,

I am just a number

and nobody understands

my language.

There is no time for sentimentality.

What I feel or even what you feel

is unimportant.

Life is a short odyssey and I can’t

carry on, dragging dreams or

those scars on torn papers.

These same papers where this

love was alive.

I read Joyce, I read Lawrence,

I read and read but nobody

can answer me, nobody can

draw stars on the palms of

my trembling hands.

I am exiled in my hungry silence.

Karla Bardanza

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