When I knew, simply, that I existed
that I could've been, continued,
I felt afraid of it, of life,
I wanted them not to see me,
that they didn't know about my existence.
I became thin, pale, absent,
I didn't want to speak so that they couldn't
recognize my voice, I didn't want to see
so that they wouldn't see me,
walking, I stuck to a wall
like a shadow that slips away.
I would've dressed
with red tiles, of smoke.
to stay there, but invisible,
to be present in everything, but from afar,
mantaining my obscure identity,
tied to the rhythm of spring.
Written on wednesday september 12, 2012
from the book "" by Pablo Neruda
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