The Willow

I met a willow tree once – acrid and expressionless.

Its pearlescent locks tasted sweet with medicinal promise.

In its tangled roots sat a clamshell, nestled deep within a rotted nest;

blemishes and knots are freely exposed in tantric, never-ending patterns.



¿Y cuál es el camino aquí? Cuando hablas en lenguas rotas y el futuro es oscuro, con soluciones como un laberinto.



I eagerly sat nestled between the roots and the cool, moist earth;

season after season – to forget my own will and expression.

I never minded sacrificing hours away,

longing to rewrite the fallacies of insincerity and deceit.



¿A lo mejor es erótico? Fetichizando la angustia y siempre destinado a estar enfurruñado?



Candied branches swayed and scratched at my skin.

Though despondent, it was a reminder of presence and clear intention,

although in the latter stages of neglect and dismissal.

So too was evolving the self-actualization and foreboding ideals.



¿A cuál destino llegará esto? Caminando y abandonando todo cuando apenas lo empiezo. La ausencia de maestría nunca desaparece.



Although I may grow thin and unkempt,

only in this state can the manifestation of adoration be so clear.

As with all things, though confident and resolute,

the dichotomy is everlasting, as my hand rests across my heart.



Creo que después de todo esto, deberías dormir finalmente. A pesar de tantos sueños oscuros; antes te has sentado bajo muchos árboles. Sabes lo que sabes y nada más. Aquí es cómodo.



That willow tree sat planted and steadfast,

watching my knees buckle whilst it had no legs with which to sympathize,

bolstering its thick roots beneath me, never wavering as I had.

The vulnerability was always mutual, only spoken in different voices