Or am I only what I know of myself? Restless, melancholic, and ill, like a caged bird, Struggling for breath, as if hands clasped my throat, Hungry for colors, for flowers, for the songs of birds, Thirsty for friendly words and human kindness, Shaking with anger at fate and at the smallest sickness, Trembling for friends at an infinite distance, Tired and empty at praying, at thinking, at doing, Drained and ready to say goodbye to it all. Who am I? This or the other? Am I one person today and another tomorrow? Am I both at once? In front of others, a hypocrite, And to myself a contemptible,
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