I am alive
like a ripened fruit,
lady of winters and summer breezes,
grandmother of birds,
a wanderer of the sailing wind.
My heart
has never been tamed,
and, like a child, I still tremble when evening falls,
the green blinds my eyes,
and the marimbas
and the noise of rain
become one with my damp belly,
when everything grows sweeter and brighter.
I grow and do not learn to grow,
I am not disappointed,
nor do I become that woman wrapped in veils,
doubting everything and mourning herself.
No, my eyes reopen each day to the wonder
of the newborn earth,
the song of peoples,
the arm of the worker building,
the vendor with her swarm of children,
the joyful little ones marching to school.
Yes,
it is true, sometimes I am sad,
and I walk the roads
free as my hair
and I cry for the softest, sweetest things
and I gather memories
that shimmer over my bones,
I am an endless spiral twisting
between suns and moons,
advancing through the days,
unlocking time
with boldness or with fear,
stripping the stars,
to climb higher and higher,
hunting the air,
savoring the being that holds me,
in the eternal wave
of tides
that shift the universe
and stir the ringed rotations of the earth.
I am the woman who thinks.
One day
my eyes
will ignite fireflies
