The Glass Soul
I am the strange child with opalescent eyes,
Whose mind, too lucid, reveals itself in the shadows;
In the obscure tumult of laughter and voices,
I walk alone, frozen, far from the common laws.
The world is a mad, noisy, discordant dance.
Where they dance on the edge of an abyss, in a comedy.
I see the cracks, the flaws, the silences,
The sighs were stifled beneath the false rhythms.
Beneath my brow, heavy with skies that no one can name,
An eternal storm refuses to break.
I am the fragile soul, on the edge of everything,
A glass so pure that even the wind shatters it.
We say "Asperger" as we say a fault.
But it's a diamond that a black sky makes me shiver.
I feel, I hear, I see — too strongly, too intensely,
And the world burns me with every beat.
I am searching for meaning, a heart, a place, clarity.
But everything is a mask, a game, a grimace, and vanity.
So I exile myself into my bitter dreams,
Companion of silence, apostle of the ether.
And I see mechanical crowds in the streets,
Their transparent eyes, their robotic gestures.
They pass by, without feeling the vertigo of the sky,
Ignoring perfumes, the essential thrills.
I stop, moved, before a grain of stone.
A ray of gold lost on the shoulder of an ivy.
Everything speaks to me, but no one hears me:
I am the stranger to the whisper of the wind.
I have tried, so many times, to imitate their way,
To learn about their theatre, their laughter from the glass roof.
But the mask weighs me down, it takes my breath away.
And I fall back, weary, into my tufted dreams.
There, I build worlds where there is no judgment.
Where beauty hides in every clumsy person.
Where one cries without shame, and without fear, one steps aside,
To give the strange a place on its menu.
But sometimes, in the night, a feeling of anguish grips me:
Am I then condemned to never touch another hand?
To be nothing more than an echo in empty rooms,
A cry too ancient for life to avoid?
So I write to myself, as one might scatter ink,
To the sea of the living, hoping that one day, some anchor
He will embrace my song, he will read it without fear.
And will say: "You are not alone, I see you, I believe you."
And if I am made of glass, chipped by the hours,
I am also a mirror reflecting splendor.
For in my solitude, a gentle fire burns within me:
A glimmer of truth — fragile… but it shines through.
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