Red Fingertips



I am stained with fantasy

That is, I can no longer live fruitfully

Without dreaming of a wordless magic

That wistfully enters me.

            I call myself we,

Because my body and I do not agree

Which is the way to live successfully

My fingers are stained with each line of poetry

Pomegranate seeds, that Hades feeds Persephone.

Each book of worldly creativity

That hungers only for me.

Past or present, year or epoch

I can’t live in a dream

Without repercussions that tyrannize me.

            I often ask to be stolen,

 So as to live consequence-free

And be granted a life that no one will know

What has happened to me.

Free from the eye that chains me, hangs me

Lifelessly, I stay starved in some sort of uninspired reality.

Hunted by thoughts of responsibility.

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