I don’t need money.
I need feelings,
words — words carefully chosen with elegance,
flowers called thoughts,
roses named stay close to me,
dreams where trees take up residence,
songs that make statues dance,
stars that whisper in the ears of lovers.
I need poetry,
this magic that burns away the roughness of words,
that awakens emotions and creates new colors.
My poetry is as alive as the fire
that runs through my fingers like a rosary.
I do not pray because I am a poetess of misfortune,
who sometimes remains silent in the labor pains of the hours.
I am the poetess who screams and plays with her screams,
I am the poetess who sings and finds no words,
I am the dry straw upon which sound falls,
I am the lullaby that makes children weep,
I am the pride that I allow to fall,
the metallic cloak of a long prayer,
from a past mourning that has never seen the light.
