A year of uncertainty, with the jaws of death wide open, eager for torment and unsuspected fears, concludes stripped of its greatest threats. We bid farewell to it with its predatory zeal and its insatiable thirst for despair. We bid farewell reaffirming the greatness of creation, the intelligence given to man, and the eternal heroic vocation, the one that emerges from hearts that appear chosen, the one that emerges marked by the sacrifice of one's own life.
Testimonies of beneficial actions record the great conflagrations and plagues that have not overcome the best will of man.
Well-understood love, brotherhood, compassion, and the giving spirit that speaks to the best of civility always survive. Succumbing has never been an option in the realms of love. We always return to song, even to recount the glory of the ashes. We always return to song, even to dream that all victory belongs to life, that no stings exist capable of exterminating it, because we are the work of a will that grants no glory to death.
We will once again irrigate the land that was given to us for play, for freedom; that was given to us as a starting point to expand horizons, to make existence a living testimony to the embrace of the first stranger.
We will pause in the depths of memory to count the kisses left behind in the hope of a quick sharing.
My poem, "Ark," could add its verses to this act of fortune: "We will arrive home giving thanks for the light, adorned in colors, of dreams collected while the sun closed its eyelids; we will arrive home without being harassed by the rites of fear...
We will pause to review all that has been lost, what we never thought would be lost, but we will resist believing that we were conceived as glitterless pieces of a world that barely misses us.
No.
It will be assumed that we are the world itself, even if waiting turns to stone; it will be assumed that we are the memories of silent nights, the days that won the battle against horror, the sickle that pruned misfortune, the psalm that made the dawn light.
It's true that we'll never be who we were, that we'll mutate like butterflies; but we'll never be wolves that devour the spirals of love. We'll emerge from the heartbeat, confident that we have enough reasons to cry; also, to sing for centuries.