09/01/2024
I'm not a scholar, nor crave or long for Midas' touch.
I flee the well-trodden paths and paint my own fresco amongst the clouds.
I silence myself amid the whining crowds,
with my doses of uncertainty, my own pain,
which I master with letters and music.
I walk, and I stand,
gifted as a seed, seeking the best ground to become a tree.
My testament shall be a testimony;
on my deathbed will dwell moments of success and failure.
Within my pupils, I carry dreams,
clinging to peaceful sleep without burdens on my chest.
I can cry, and do so with the same ease as a child.
I ask for nothing but a storm
to show me the art of sailing
and the fortitude to survive if shipwrecked.
Behind me, the futile and the mediocre,
at my feet, fresh grass and the flow of a stream,
in my hands, freedom,
above my head, the spirits of my ancestors,
those who protect and guide.
I am just a man who knows he is useful,
a man familiar with the stench of falsehood and the fragrance of truth.
I am just a man who knows he is imperfect and loves,
and that suffices for me.
Me.
