The soul is an island.
\nIts boundaries are space,
\nrain in the afternoon
\nwhere sunlight draws its shadow.
\nHow the perfume of love,
\njelly, absolute cold
\nbecome the walls,
\nthe crooked stone of ancient paths,
\nwords that never leave your mouth.
\nYour own geography.<\/p>\n
Your soul,
\nwhere loneliness stays quiet
\nin the corner,
\nwhile you look through collections
\nof toys, coins,
\nunusual mundane memories,
\nand you ask why they accumulate,
\nturn on and off like lights.
\nRoses on a table,
\na chair you sat on,
\na house that marks a street.<\/p>\n
In panic sometimes,
\nyou run out of the soul,
\nyou push a boat in the water,
\ntremble like a dog shaking its coat,
\nleave the house asking yourself,
\nwhere am I going?
\nAnd the soul becomes quiet,
\nmotionless,
\na sadness beyond bearing
\novertakes your heart.
\nOr you become invisible,
\ntalk to yourself,
\nhear your mother calling,
\nand you listen,
\nand that is what you are before morning,
\nsomething that listens in the dark.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
The soul is an island. Its boundaries are space, rain in the afternoon where sunlight draws its shadow. How the perfume of love, jelly, absolute…<\/p>\n