Pray for me,
not for my safety,
but for my clarity.
I go to loosen the yoke,
to unlearn the grammar of masters,
to return without chains,
or not return at all.
If I come back, Mother,
it will be to a land
that remembers its own name.
No more slaves to reptiles
dressed as blue eyes canaries,
no more scorpions
namng their stings peace and democracy.
I will not sleep
on the silk of forgetting,
nor dream the dreams
others have prepared for me.
I will not warm myself
beneath the blankets of fear.
I keep my soul
in the custody of fire,
the fire of Zarathustra.
I safeguard it
in the temple of my conscience,
on the torch of my courage.
When spirits are starved,
no food can feed them.
When meaning grows cold,
no luxury brings warmth.
So I go,
not away from you,
but deeper into what you are.
O Mother,
I am already coming.
