The blue peace of sky.
Wings.
A view of passing birds.
Joy.
I try, but resentment
is determined to invade
my verses.
Forgiveness.
Not for my real parents,
no.
Maybe someday, after I’ve seen
this wide world’s wonders,
just like the wanderer, El Bocón.
In the meantime, I use my written voice
loudly, scribbling protests against every
injustice, especially crimes
of personal, emotional, selfish
betrayal.