Sunday, olives

The ladder positioned between me and the tree

tells a hundred stories 

of running away to hide in branches 

where only the imagination would find me 

scrawling a plan on torn pieces of paper 

pretending its animals skin 

that I am a queen from olden times 

fallen into the recent age by chance 

this is childhood, now older 

with the tree in my hands 

instead of me in hers 

picking its sons and daughters 

how much have you both grown! 

question on origin, once more

I have once asked earth
am I from you?
when I do not have dirt in my hair

it laughed,
all I could know is that
I don't not know for sure

where I descended from
an earth or a sky
or probably a bit of them both.

Drifting in the wrong waters

How many times, would I have had to die
because my ship drifted to where I didn't ask

tornado at sea,
I, am the difficult storm ahead

how many have to go, so I could feel
the wind as a brother

on my neck,
because my ship drifted to the wrong waters

like your life is of no value

You point at an empty frame I haven't hung yet

asking 

what would an empty womb use it for?

Banal

The fights you pick

using arms, extended, legs bent 

over things that cannot keep up the whole 

banal the verse and the firearms

thinking about recycling

Dusty evening
a flat water-bottle pours
oxygenated breath down the amphitheater 

Fear of force

I fear
the force that causes
death by inconveniences.