The flavor of dark corridors / Oh, what a role I play. In the ugly, sad cell, I spread out my memories with the flavor of tears. My soft poems cover me in ashes, stretched out in sobs and bewilderment, stabbed with the dagger of bitterness and the hateful, gloomy night. A mill grinds my dreams and exposes me with the rape of the daughters of hymns.
I sleep in my secret, shattered, hung on the walls, writing to my beloved with the remains of my salty sweat. I treat myself with the fertilizer of my story, embroidered with patience and pain. In the dark, I assume the shape of the crimson sun and weave my shroud with the thread of ancient freedom and the scent of jasmine and distant meadows.
I become a bird and eternal ink, the size of myths and towering mountains. I weave in impossible spaces a nest of fantasy and place. I shine with the color of the miracles of prophets. And I am crippled between the dark corridors of the earth, wrapped in the sneezes of the jailer, with my neighbors of cockroaches and rats that do not sleep, and the remains of mosquitoes thirsty for my blood.
In my narrow, sad cage, all imaginations invade me. I become cities of flames and abandoned islands, and an emperor of roses. It’s as if I belong to creatures from the seventh planet. My torment lengthens with electric shocks, and I die a hundred times in a minute. I see my grave, then I return from my coma, standing firm, resisting even in my sleep.
Oh, how harsh you are, terrible prison nights
