My Writings

The Shore

Let me burn your tongue, washed in fire, like Motecuhzoma’s heart, to rediscover tastes innate. Their eyes, wide open, counting the blessings of the spices, like phrases in speech, strung together in a song. All, resting like pearls on a thread, like hands of a siren, around your neck.

Rediscover, awaken, a power within. Master of the senses, wrestling wind into the head of a needle, to raise your own banners, whistling, as if crying out like prisoners bound to the mast. No longer thrown by waves in this or that direction, but separating the sea through sheer force of will, vigor, virility. And madness.

Come to the podium, and speak your own truth, trembling. Mad one, can you recognize me, have you seen me before? Speak truly. Piercing eyes upon you, lump in you throat, but song oozes out from your being, regardless. Freedom. In the end, you have finally acquired what you sought. And I have recognized myself in you.

I, for one, have lost the need for a ship. Watched them all sink, didn’t even bat an eye. I am not the one who walked on water. I have rejected all notion of crossing it. Instead, I wait here, on familiar shores, counting days and grains of sand, raising cattle and regrets, but the waves draw me towards their salty bosom, as sweet as a promise, now almost bitter, rising higher with every tide. I am not ready, leave me be.

But I have always known that one day, I will make my way across that great water, once again, to tremble like a lonely boat on the high seas, and to see myself alive and living. To learn and relearn again, that I am only a man, born and raised on solid ground, and my place is on the shore.



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