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My soul, above all—do not be afraid.
Fire has a rightful habit of fading
At the most unexpected moment.
But if it doesn’t—then the trouble begins.
You’ll soar then, desperate and brave,
Tracing the thin, wild paths of comets.
You are a bird made of burlap, flax, and calico.
The last shadows of the great Inquisitions
Still keep a dossier on each of us.
But we are more cunning—do you hear?
Yes, we are more cunning.
We will never grow old with malice,
We’ll fall into resonance with the Universe.
The sharp-
My dream—behold how beautiful you are,
And how hideous your enemies look beside you.
Can you imagine how miserable they must be?
We have already wed the dawns,
And birds have sung us a hymn.
Songs are little use to the deaf.
The viceroys of sacred thrones
Don’t believe in our herbs or our forests.
But you—
You believe.
Foolish? Not too much.
Then the blind will come—
They’ll burn the houses and the books,
Tape shut the mouths, tear out the voices.
My river—by the will of God’s own hand,
We’ll swap our bodies with a reckless laugh.
I’ll call on all the sorcerers of the world.
I will become your hand, your bracelet,
The wind that travels with you.
And you will see summer,
The clouds, the sparrows dancing in the dust—
And an apple with a strong, ruddy cheek.
There is more God in you now
Than in their words,
Twisted like a crooked track.
I’ll be your dream and your wooden spoon.
Only—please—don’t cry,
When you come to the square
And see me dancing on coals.
My soul—please, don’t be afraid.
Love has the honest nature of not ending,
No matter how long you live.
You are a witch, yes—
But no more cruel than your hunters.
We’ll simply pity the executioners,
And all the others
Who live without love.
And you—
You live a hundred years.
I’ll be a glorious omen beside you,
A generous starfall,
An illusion flashing ahead.
Only one sorrow clings to me—
That those who think differently
Are marked through the centuries
With the horned sign.
But we, my fate—
We will not give ourselves to them.