It’s easy to speak of defiance, but the truth is
that I feel defeated and desperate.
Inside my old suitcase,
a storm of verses is hidden.
With paper as my sky, words
are the wind that should help my mind fly.
If only my heart could follow,
celebrating any chance to transform
life’s hardships
into rhythmic artworks,
like the desert people
who paint murals
of flowering green forests
on barren
adobe walls.
For now, this drumbeat of rage
will be my only poetry.