If I had lungs
would I be different?
Would I be poisonous
if I had a real heart,
instead of this wooden muscle,
heavy and tired?
Would I be more pure
if I was born in the ocean
and not on this sterile piece of land,
peopled by Tartars?
It is raining on my cascade of myracles,
it is pouring with sadness
on this desert of seedless weeds.
Recollections are vanishing
in a cosmic future.
And I am so afraid of being me.
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