Fresh Air

It’s hard to breathe and the world

is painful: 
it rambles on and you quiver along the tides of hell or

winter

or

of all the furious hearths that suddenly have decided that the world is not your house

that you are merely leased to your days

that your skin is not your skin 
but only the shell of your days.

Then, suddenly,

you go beyond yourself 
and without hope to survive till the dawn of the hours in white,

but life is a voyage

from which you always return before you disembark.

We are all so superior

and so great

enormously

minds

brilliant that

life becomes small and we dream

of breaking the limits

while perhaps

the only thing that is worth anything is the trembling of watery eyes

before what really matters, to be present, to be here.

Along the way, you cast your burdens:

the self-pity, the fire of rage, the cold of leaving

toward that place where you are no longer more

than the pure longing for

fresh air.

Originally published in Spanish by Rosario Curiel.

http://rosariocuriel.blogspot.com/2017/12/aire-fresco.html