The offence of a hand on mine
the offence of a mine:
it blows up like my heart
whenever I think of you at the start
of my daily rotten tart.
I swallow it for breakfast
like Socrate swallowed hemlock,
a sweet poison in my own womb,
I do not wish for more but to lock
Myself into dust.
And become air, breeze, wind,
freely dissolve and dance,
my spirit becomes bigger than my wounds.
Zephyrus holds my hand,
a good man, a good father,
I travel through the clouds,
the sky and the good weather.
I do not wish for more but to live
into his hands forever
and if the Gods forbid me,
I will fight for me, for me.
I am light as a feather,
I am learning peacefulness,
I have nothing do with weariness.
