This morning I knew it
as I felt the joy of life itself striking my cheeks:
I’m not old neither a child.
I understood that line in a poem
while I walked this city I own,
this world that belongs to me.
It is my skin the recipient
of thousand suns and infinite snow,
home of endless paths,
And my left hand is
like no other left hand
and my voice is intended to build
whatever melody I’m supposed to create.
I knew it then, as I felt the joy of life itself,
and the coldest wind,
and the warmest sun
hitting my cheeks altogether.