I did not want to die.
Like an ape that never learned
to speak as a ghost in its dreams
or invent words that rhymed.
Who took the olive thought
I used to wear on my forehead
to protect myself from stupidity?
Will someone cover my face?
It looks like it never smiled,
like a child before reciting a verse.
I want to die.
Like an idea that pollinated the pores
of my senses with abundant desires
until it was taken away by the solar wind.