No one became a beggar by feeding others,

no one got killed by some rain, no one, no one

and nothing can save another from pain. 

It is possible to make a phrase sound

so beautiful, there’s a rhythm to it,

I could paint some notes for you, 

Like a Gaugin, or a Vermeer,

or I can try to. I learned so much 

from you, the amber colour of a palette

running dry, although you never held

a pigment in your life, with your words

I could paint worlds for you, live for the living, 

face things as they are, without

excuses, neither in fun nor pain. 

I write you notes I know you will

never read. Such a non-sequitur

as I face my failures each day, 

take the bull by its horns, as you

taught me to. Sometimes they gore

into me, sometimes I ride, wild and free

I do not apologise for being myself

even when I do not meet your mandates

I carry my gins and djinns in flasks

I have dripped and dribbled in the ring.

This matador stands empty-handed, head bent. 

Your warrior princess is broken but not dead, 

would you rather I gave platitudes instead?