About Blisters of Defeat

There is no poem about blisters of defeat.

I went to a hill oneday

across gray trees

thick with fatigue.

I broke a finger,

made a stick out of it

and promised not to blink.

Clearing tangles of branches,

cobwebs of history,

I advanced swinging the stick

one way or the other

like an ancient warrior.

Where the stick touched the ground

grayness made way for the green

and patches of grass appeared

replacing worn out big trees.

Breezes that once swelled with my sweat and pain

now became free from my judgements

loitoring around like a jubilant child.

I settled down on a rock of the lost world,

perched on the top of the hill,

opened my shoes.

As I stroked the sol of my feet

drops of dew surfaced,

tickling me,

bringing me back to the

openness of space and time.

I filled my lungs with a gulp of cool air,

saw the landscapes,

the earth I had left in the morning,

" Oh, yeah!" , I sighed,

"It is not about blisters of defeat."