I cannot tell if you see the light in all this.
How many times have I tried to kill my body?
The hopelessness, the despair, the depression,
As well as the paralysis that gripped me,
Thinking that my body and I were the same.
But it cannot be that there is an error
In the organisation of bodies,
To make them resemble their bearers,
As if a door were the same as a window,
Or the roof were mistaken for the house.
Despair must be the end of my body,
Like sliding doors that lead you into a beautiful hall
Full of mirrors, reflections or glass,
Where beauty and elegance grow from the crash
Of a body out of the ruins of hope.
I do not need the sun; I carry light with me
And walk down the hill, free of the wind.
That is what I call freedom, or how it sounds.
The sound of bitter cola is its taste;
It cures stomach aches by sliding deeper down.
My mother once said a gardener
Can hang a flower out in a garden, like a friend.
But it does not belong there; it’s the heart
That appreciates its music and fragrances,
Its power over death, its will to go on and on.
