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A poem in remembrance of Martin

Identity


by Julio Noboa Polanco


Let them be as flowers,

always watered, fed, guarded, admired,

but harnessed to a pot of dirt.


I’d rather be a tall, ugly weed,

clinging on cliffs, like an eagle

wind-wavering above high, jagged rocks.


To have broken through the surface of stone,

to live, to feel exposed to the madness

of the vast, eternal sky.

To be swayed by the breezes of an ancient sea,

carrying my soul, my seed,

beyond the mountains of time or into the abyss of the bizarre.


I’d rather be unseen, and if

then shunned by everyone,

than to be a pleasant-smelling flower,

growing in clusters in the fertile valley,

where they’re praised, handled, and plucked

by greedy, human hands.


I’d rather smell of musty, green stench

than of sweet, fragrant lilac.

If I could stand alone, strong and free,

I’d rather be a tall, ugly weed.


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