The tree branches sway back and forth in freedom,
teasing and taunting me while I lie in my own self-pity.
This eternal thirst I have cannot be quenched.
A pole’s flag violently swaying in a hurricane
as it bends and hurls,
sick with despair,
I snap out of my thoughts and emit a sigh, a moan;
which it is
a mystery
I’ll never solve.
I cannot tell if I am frowning or weeping,
my heartbeat picks up, I bite my nails.
This disease is a spiritual presence,
haunting all those who have it.
I lie awake and think of them:
the ones that I admire and can comprehend.
Us poets, compare one thing to another,
but we ourselves are truly the hardest to understand.
