How many times have I tried to embrace my life…
yet it slipped away from me like a bird with broken wings,
afraid of my hands more than it fears the void itself.

And I read the hopeless history of my birth…
as though I were searching through the notebook of absence
for a single reason
that might make me ache a little less.
But I find nothing except names that have fallen from my memory,
and days that once resembled me,
then abandoned me at the first fracture.

And I tried to plant my dreams and hopes
within the flower of spring…
but spring was far away from me,
as if it were a promise written for someone else.
Everything I planted inside my heart withered,
as though the earth refused
to remember the shape of my face.

How many times did I wish
for the tree of my destiny to turn green…
but its roots were feeding on my fear
and on the confusion of my days,
when I no longer knew where I was going.
So I remained standing beneath it
like a shadow that bears no fruit.

And how many times did I hide my tears
inside the weeping of the night…
so that morning would not awaken me to my own truth,
and so the moon would not see me collapsing before itself.
Thus I smile at the darkness,
and leave my pain
to write me alone… without witnesses.