Last Updated: April 8th, 2019
a silent stream licking the taproot,
a search that perpetuates itself
collides with dreams or expectations.
When will it end?
What is the body health? What is the mind?
The mind belongs to the body,
the body belongs to the earth
that nourishes it.
Forsaking the ownership
I marvel at the infinite possibilities of the soil
to melt with it and wonder.
What will flourish from the unknown destination?
Beginning and end lie in its intimate spaces,
where hopeless moments restore our sanity,
where seeds dredge up miracles,
in the entrails of the Pacha Mama,
in the quiet womb of the earth.
Today I wished to wake up
as if I’d never existed before,
as if my feet touched the earth for the first time
eager to move forward,
to taste the rain as if I’d never seen it,
to cherish every minute as if it were the last,
to turn every cloud into a star,
every tear into a pearl of wisdom,
to let out all the doubts
and mold every failure into a new chance,
to greet the sun and levitate
above the voices of despair,
like a child’s soul caressing fire,
swimming in the snow
to ride questions that lack answers.
Life and Death
The future is an illusion,
the past a story in our heads,
all we have is the present,
fleeting and fragile
like the flutter of a bird,
like the musical laughter of a child
or the rosy orange slant of light
before the sunset.
I no longer fear death,
I will acquiesce to its path
the way the sea welcomes the sky;
my legacy will take care of itself,
futile is the attempt to dodge
what belongs to who we are,
the turmoil of losing a loved one
close to the precipice,
the selfless surrender of your own life,
when death is no longer a menacing precipice
but the comfort of our own illusions.