False identity

Faithful traslation of a poem I wrote in Spanish.

It lives in my insides 
though never revealed in x-ray. 
Tries to escape through my mouth, my sex, 
my eyes. I don't let it go away.

Vomit me!
Spurt me!
Weep me!

Wants to break my heart
making little ice cubes of it. 
Intents to erode my faith,
to poison me sweetly with his teasing voice.
His breath mists the soul, rusts the ideas.
Can feel it turning on in my brain.
Throbs, shouts, kicks out inside my core.
Knows I am stronger and rises up.
Scratches my very soul, bites my entrails. 
Goes up and down my bones,
swings boldly from my ribs. Tickles my hips
wiggling them softly.
Crawls sultry in my bowels.
Sits down and jumps on my skull. 
Gnaws, scratches, surrounds it.
Swims nude all along my veins. Burns.
Rises up to my throat. 
I swallow it entire!
Never gives up. Never. It never gives up. 

Release me!
Let me go!
Don't hold me prisoner!

Don't know if it's wolf, vulture or hyena. 
It is afraid of me and I am afraid of it. 
I fasten his chains. He laughs. His guffaws hurt me 
stabbing me deeply. I bleed.

We grew up together, angel and monster. 
When I look at myself in the mirror I can see this ugly face. 
With its sharp claws it wants to seaze my dreams;
that thing, the absolute owner of my worst nightmares, 
screams - only I can hear it - screams. 

It sizes me up. It goads me. 
It stole my innocence. It takes me to the limit. It discourages me. 
The doors of greediness opened wide for me.

 I don't let it out: it would kill me. 
Both of us condemned to live the same life. 

Who are you? Who am I...?

I am yourself, your wild ego. 
Tonight I will escape. 
You won't be able to stop me with your nails or teeth. 
Scriptum est. Go, go, go!
Then, only then, you will know who you really are. 
The true you unveiled.
The candid dove turned out to be an asp.
You tried to strangle me, cut off my head.
Only death can separate us. Friends or foes, who knows...?
I will return to my heinous underworld.
Want to come with me or face the void forever? 

Shut up! 
Why are you lying to me? 

(Why do I lie to myself?)

✍Quotes of the day
- "I came to believe that my true identity goes beyond the outer roles I play. It transcends the ego. I came to understand that there is an Authentic 'I' within - an 'I Am,' or divine spark within the soul."
(Sue Monk Kidd)
- "One of the most wonderful things in nature is a glance of the eye; it transcends speech; it is the bodily symbol of identity."
(Ralph Waldo Emerson)


To Oliver

This little guy is 1.
He is my hubby's grandson.
I have written this Acrostic thinking of him.

✍Quote of the day
"There are two great days in a person's life - the day we are born and the day we discover why."
(William Barclay)



Clouds have spoken to me since I was a little child. 
Still I look up at them and listen...
They tell stories every hour, every minute, every second.
Depending on the wind. 
Never the same story for they are not boring. 
Their language is pure, transparent, clear. 

When angry, they turn grey or black and pour tears. 

Sometimes they travel far away to have a rest
and it's all blue above us.
But they return, always return. 
Wearing mourning  or in wedding dress.

They evaporate, grow or shrink like magic. 
At dawn they bleed when the morning's born.
At dusk they bleed again when the day dies. 
When happy they look like gold.
In lovely evenings, they dress in romantic pink.

They sleep in millions of stars
and the moon lullabies them gently.

Clouds are made of seas, springs and rivers. 
They carry all the pain and laughter of the world. 
They are ships full of wishes and dreams. 
Clouds speak in the language of God. 
Clouds speak to you and me.
Look up, look up!
And listen

"You are in the clouds", I know, mum, I know.
I have no head.

✍Quote of the day
"Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add color to my sunset sky."
(Rabindranath Tagore)


Everybody's son

Washed ashore like a seaweed,
the mourning breeze caresses
this wee body no more growing.

We all cut this angel's wings.

Cradled softly by the waves,
carried dead to the promised land,

he met death instead of mercy.
Life denied a helping hand.
His limp limbs, so beautifully tender, still.
His closed eyes kissed so gently by the sand.
Silver ripples crown his head,

- mother nature killed the pauper not the prince -
cold lips, face down, sweet cheeks... 
Look at him!
Oh my God, what have we done?

Can't you hear? Can't you hear
desperation crying out loud? 
Don't close your ears!
Cries from afar.
Cries sound near.
Relentless the day dies...

Aylan, Aylan,
we've stolen all your smiles.

Sad pic shared by millions
as if it were a meat sample,
but today, just for a day, 
this boy's everybody's son.

People weep to wash their shame away:
one more example of world pain.
That's all, folks, that's all.
Innocence lies helpless again.

His childhood dreams
- had he ever had some - drowned.

We gave him this sort of life:
three small years full of fear,

A shameful sea made of tears.

the boy dreaming of an island.

...and tomorrow nobody will remember
this child who will never grow.
My poor little pigeon!
We will never hear your song.

Aylan..., my son...,
cries Allah.

Prayers are not enough
to console our hearts.
Wake up, mother Europe,
wake up!

✍Quote of the day
"Most Christian 'believers' tend to echo the cultural prejudices and worldviews of the dominant group in their country, with only a minority revealing any real transformation of attitudes or consciousness. It has been true of slavery and racism, classism and consumerism and issues of immigration and health care for the poor."
(Richard Rohr)



Used, amused, abused and finally refused
by the muse adored, he decided to strike back
using his power. Caught in flight
and accused of plagiarism, she was condemned
to live for ever in a jewel music box
where she had to dance for days on end,
until expiring, with all his demons.
Then, death impregnated,
he sang the saddest songs in mourning words,
and, in return, gods made him see
the ugly face that love concealed.

✍Quote of the day
"Inside us there is something that has no name. That something is what we are." 
(JosĂ© Saramago)