A SONG OF FREEDOM
It will pass by my pilgrim I,
J Pinoli
I feel that when we are born, we die...
We left some place without flags,
For other, that we didn't choose,
Separate by abysses and borders.
Among uncontrollable circumstances,
Enclosed by legated notions,
We sacrifice the integrity of the reason
And go forward by feelings,
That don't consult the heart.
And without watchful consciousness
Freedom is lost
Because of unwitting choices.
Though, swallowed by the time,
All circumstances will pass by,
But the I that expresses
The essential instance,
Shall never pass by.
Merge of ethnicities,
Hostage of genetic inheritances,
Impregnated by values of the nation,
Condemned by desires,
Drowned in a sea of isms, of idols,
Of dogmas and premises of vain faiths;
It shall pass by this I of layers,
Captured by clingings
Of thick and repulsive mucus,
But the true I will not pass.
I am that which I am,
And not that which I am living.
What I am not, shall pass by,
Because, indeed,
While I was here,
I had never been.
Alive − I am buried already in a coffin,
As the travail of all these many attributes.
Dead− I will be discharged
Of this degrading viscosity,
Free to resurrect
And ascend towards culminating heights.