Birth

So it is that I am born, that I appear in this world,that I come already with my soul torn,and bring in my tender chest something deep:a pain, a gleam that wounds in the gaze.

I look at my mother and feel that I am hersand that I begin to be an “other,” an individual,for the fruit may have come from the bud,but now it finds itself alone before destiny.

My father shows me the world with his deeds,leads me with a firm hand along the path.I pass my days in his society, among the pactsof the man who gives his life as an offering.

I grow up amid solitudes and silence,I decipher the magic signs of the soulwhich, written in books, are like genies:they are my eager companions of childhood.

When I understand the lies that surround it,I renounce my religion and seek the fordthat will take me to God on the returnfrom this exile to the other world, still remembered.

My soul, in deep light; forsakenthe heart, overwhelmed in a soft niche.Why should I keep silent what was spoken?Why not, instead, cry out what has been said?

I find, at last, love in a rose;so I understand that I was born upon being loved…Love in the chest, love, there is nothing else!the anguish of the heart is over.