I regret that I’m not a
beast,
running along a blue path,
telling myself to believe,
and my other self to wait a
little,
I’ll go out with myself to
the forest
to examine the insignificant
leaves.
I regret that I’m not a star,
running along the vaults of
the sky,
in search of the perfect nest
it finds itself and earth’s
empty water,
no one has ever heard of a
star giving out a squeak,
its purpose is to encourage
the fish with its silence.
And then there’s this grudge
that I bear,
that I’m not a rug, nor a
hydrangea.
I regret I’m not a roof,
falling apart little by
little,
which the rain soaks and
softens,
whose death is not sudden.
I don’t like the fact that
I’m mortal,
I regret that I am not
perfect.
Much much better, believe me,
is a particle of day a unit
of night.
I regret that I’m not an
eagle,
flying over peak after peak,
to whom comes to mind
a man observing the acres.
I regret I am not an eagle,
flying over lengthy peaks,
to whom comes to mind
a man observing the acres.
You and I, wind, will sit
down together
on this pebble of death.
It’s a pity I’m not a grail
I don’t like that I am not
pity.