A letter to my daughter

Will you ever forgive me
for my poetic ignorance and romantic wings?
My life is half lived.
Maybe it is a collection of wreckages
and useless things.
I can't live to see clearly
who I am
or what is in my name.

There is a light - my dear-
a light I can't see.
It is behind the stars when
the sixth element
inspires Poets
and Venus embraces Mars.

I am not noble. I can't be noble.
I am weird and I regret
what I can't be before I go to sleep.
I don't know how to be different
and it is so sweet.

Those shadows reached me.
Can't hide myself anymore.
Would you forgive me
if I destroy what I adore?

Will you forgive me
when I mourn the past
and life?
Will you forgive me
for keeping that knife?

There are so many silent questions
living in me.
It is so difficult to die
in front of the sea.
It is so difficult to live:
it is a hard task
to take off this mask.
(If I knew how to be a mother...)

Sweetheart,
light me a candle when I'm gone
but never try to understand my thoughts
or motivations as my soul lies still
under a lost mill.

Forgive me for this early twilight,
for this moonlit confession.
for my strange strangeness
We both know. Yes, you and I do
but your's mother's name has always been tristesse.

Karla Bardanza
June, 2011

Tristesse = sadness in French

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