Nothing,
Nothing compares...
To the sight of a cold corpse,
Dry tulips atop a lustered rectangle,
A box for the truth,
A cell for the dead,
The sound of bells from a nearby wedding,
The cries of babies on tired arms,
The smell of a dusty church,
Burning in the middle of a December afternoon.
I hold a rosary,
More for the living than for the dead,
For the living are often dead,
And the dead are often living,
Maybe we'll meet someday,
Say your last goodbye,
It's time to go,
Bury the dead,
Go on with the living,
Hide the truth under the soil,
But know that it will grow again,
You'll see it in fresh cut tulips,
The white sun will remind you,
The breeze will whisper my name,
Syllable by syllable,
My name will haunt you.
My identity has been questioned countless times, and, while I try to be strong and go on with my life, I always end up listening to critics who seem to know what I should be like. In this poem, I speak of the death of my identity and its rebirth. It lives without me...
