I’d rather be a witch
Without a family
Solitary but lovely
With no one to claim
Not even one to lose
Than be a materfamilias
With no sign of tenderness
Not even a hint of softness
As if it were a mark of weakness.
I won’t belong to a matriarchy.
One more chance
and the soul’s deep
misery in the abyss
would be beatitude;
Universe!
Save the soul
in bottomless watery
fit where no light dares
to reach, not even God
cares to send his grace
to the despondent
whose prayer for his
grace is a turn of the screw.
Happiness is her
coveted poetry
She’s kept away
From writing
Without knowing
The face of love
She’s seen only
As in lovers’ faces
Harvesting sunshine
Reflecting starlight
With a fragrance
Of a perfumed powder
She bought a long ago.
Impressionist 
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