Of Wounds
Poetic prose
I cannot tell which of the wounds I acquired hurts more. I gather all of them in a large wicker basket and sort them out every summer morning when fields are filled with lavender and roses.
During autumn nights, while I listen to the wind unbraiding the old oak trees, I re-live each of them.
I see how the Lie walks hand in hand with the Betrayal, and how the Betrayal indulges herself in the sweetest of wine. Oh, that irresistible taste of black grapes that melts in her mouth. It almost makes her attractive.
The Envy wears red lipstick and high heels. She dances naked on a wooden table. At every turn she spreads poisonous confetti in the air, and she lowers her eyes. I try to decipher the meaning of her gestures. I cannot.
The Greed, with her childbearing hips, indulges herself with poor souls who live at the margins of the city. The children are hungry, and the mother is long exhausted. The beds are cold, and the moonlight enters the rooms through broken windows.
I feel the pulse in my temples. Exhausted I go over the meaning of love and sacrifice. I try to restore them in their right place.
Love and sacrifice are the consummation of all acts that lead to the warm meal that one hands to an old man who dwells in the streets during cold winters. They are the sum of all unknowns. They are the fingers that draw the light of stars in the darkest of the skies.
