Dying And Being Born Many Times
At midnight, the turn of the day, I was suddenly pulled from the mother's womb;
Without having time to ask, let alone refuse.
However, if life slapped my left and right cheeks, I wouldn't be speechless.
Really, something inside me would fight back, then punch the nose of life to a nosebleed while screaming!
Come on, son of a bitch! Come on fight with me;
Look who's left of this savage struggle.
Am I with all my crazy desire, that is in me
Or live with all his brutal slaps, which are full of tactics, so that I will end my life.
Oh how this stubborn bastard has chosen to stand;
Wrestling with chaos, absurd destiny.
I will be born, then die, then I will be born and die many times and be born again.
And I will spit in the face of life and its destiny, which occasionally brings me to my knees.
But I am me, will remain me, challenging uncertainty:
I will revolt, then build a palace from the ruins of frozen time.
Even though life sucks the essence of meaning in my life;
I will fight back, turning every disaster into news of my birth again, alone, lone.
Tuesday, April 6, 2021
Topic(s) of this poem: Live,revolution,Passion,Love,philosophical,mystical philosophy,existentialism,existence,Death,Born