My Exile

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

To be exiled on earth...

Voice of exile— the voice of a blind hole—
The orphan voice—
It has appeared like thick blood,
Reclaiming calmingly its place,
In some place of the world.


Today it has called on me.

The screams of birds that pass in rows
Over the coffee beans, over the banana trees,
Over the cold foam of the ocean
That crashes and hums,
And pulls with it the coffee pulp
And the dense flowers from the fields.

Today, something has been detained within me,
Deep backwaters that make one scream,
Soon, slow, sweetly;
Saved in the agitated surface of its waters,
Certain days, certain hours of the past,
Which are being grasped
By the most secret, and effective matter of life.
They float now,
In serene evidence of loyal witnesses
And them—I welcome in my time of exile.

In the coffee, even in friend’s homes,
They return with painful discoloration:
Sudan, Iran, Zimbabwe, Valencia
And then Somalia, Cambodia, Dakar, Rwanda.
I unite with their rage, their misery,
And I forget who I am completely;
Where do I come from? Where am I going?


So when I weigh my exile,
And look at the long lost solitude of the past,
I see the anticipated death that corresponds to me
In every hour, in every day of absence,
That I make busy with work and people—
Whose strange conditions push me
Towards the dream that revolves around its own disguise,
Made from a crust of matter—
Exiled by time and forgetfulness.

Submitted: March 21, 2009

© Copyright 2021 Adime Obscuritatem. All rights reserved.

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