Freedom lives in me.
Its within me, not within my madness.

Its within my capacity to imagine.

It’s in the sun-rays bathing my face,
and my naked, long, always beautyful legs,
-which the nurses how deny to cover them with a green
hospital robe-
in my capacity to take wise decisions; and to love.

In the capacity to free myself,
from all fear;
from all anger.

Freedom it’s been encaged;
wings *******,
closed eyes,
and been able to fly;
feel blood flow;
the voice run;
fly;
tremulously;
vividly;
running through my skin,
like a kite, of brilliant colors
trapped, inside my body.

Freedom it’s in close my
eyes and
listen the outline of my
lips,
and my kisses, sent to
nobody.

Its feel my thoughts,
stop
my own momentum.

The
freedom is fought against the manifest of madness.
Against
the feeling of be standing without anything under my feet.

Freedom is to fight for listen the silence.
The silence in the center of my thoughts.
In the hummingbirds, and the singing of the birds.

In all of that the freedom is hidden.

And noise that the typewriter of the shrink produces in the hall, dictating diagnose.
Generates the violent ravage of the madness, pounding each pounding.

And the freedom, over all, sleeps in the bed 14th,
where my refugee, my limb, and my salvation.
The one multiplied by itself;
infinite, like the aleph, I have tattooed next to my heart
The number 4,
like the four pillars oracle that defined the Greek destine, included mine.