That man, that neighbour over there
It’s I seeking me
As if I were in front of a mirror
Only that there is no mirror
Between him and I
Those men, all of them, that crowd
It’s I fragmented
Those women, all of them, that crowd
It’s I, my feminine side seeking a gap in my skin
To escape, to run away, to forget about me
No matter the pain, the crying, the solitude, the waiting, the hoping
That boy, that girl, those children, that group over there in the school play yard
Growing up, dreaming of becoming an adult to become a child
It’s I living hard, weeping to be back
In my mother’s womb and never come out again
But stay there warm, protected/unprotected, fragile
No mirror in my mother’s womb to seek me
Just she and I, and her memories, her hopes for the child
I, sharing my mother’s thoughts, her blood, her life
That old man over there, flooded by years, by time
Those grandparents at the threshold of the stone chatting in the hall of the time gone
Telling worn out old jokes, music, dances past, old books, black and white pictures
Breathing the roses, avoiding pestilence, breathing the snow, moonlights, and rainbows
On their way to oblivion
Unable to look at their grandchildren in the eyes because, like in the mirror
Their eyes will look them back
Those old men, old women are curious about my next step should I give it
The sharp curve on the road ahead where I will disappear from their sight
That man, the lonely one in the mirror, that image is I, no matter what
I cannot escape from being me
Is it my make-up?
These adult men and women, those children, those old men and women
Are they my make-up, my past regalia, my future costume?
The clown in me, the sad clown
Not at all true, sometimes bright, sometimes happy, a happy clown, that’s right
It’s I the great prisoner
Afraid of being me
Afraid of meeting those people, those children, too many
In solitude
In solitude, in my mother’s womb
At least I could cry, and no one, no one, but my mother
Would dry my tears, her tears, their tears
