Don’t blame me if I am not,  
for in the end, I am by not being  
in order to be.  
Every kiss,  
every flower,  
every stranger’s smile—that’s me.  
Do you see the sun’s shimmer on water?  
That, too, is me.  

And that boy sleeping on the street?  
That mother weeping?  
Those who eat what others threw as trash?  
I am these people as well, I confess.  
Don’t be surprised if my sorrow does not fade,  
for I can be nothing but all these things I am.  

In the things that are alive,  
there is where I live,  
and it is not in death where I die.  
From thing to thing, my clothes change,  
From so much longing, my heart pulses.  

And if one day i ceased to be all this,  
what would remain of me then  
would be merely what i alone am.  
A small thing,  
or nothing.  
For blinded by indifference,  
not even my mirror  
would know who I am.