My mother says passions change with age.
She swears the way she cared about things
I care about now, was uncanny
and that the revolution in our hearts
inevitably dies with time.
And I believe her.
I will not dispute the damage that capitalism does,
that the hustle for survival steals ideas from
Responsibilities start to mould goals,
freedom suffers, compromises,
I will not deny that the pressure of domestication
tames the wildest of us, that it is inclined
to leave the remaining of us
on the outskirts of norms,
or to insanity, sometimes in the arms
of hallucinogens and wine.
I am cognizant my spirits will break,
I know they do every other day.
I lose battles to the dollar for my time.
I see that I might one day be a generic vessel
selling capitalism back to the world,
back to my offspring, telling them that
capitalism will break their spine.
It will only be human of me.
However for now, I will hear in your words
only that revolution reprodruces itself.
For that moment, I will settle in my thoughts,
in this rare moment that I have as mine,
and I will submit
to my smile.