Publicado originalmente en Jimson Weed Abril 2026, la revista literaria, que por ahora solo existe en físico de la Universidad de Virginia

Will I ever not miss the rainforest I never stepped on? The one

hiding in the coast that birthed a whole country and filled it

with magic tracing backwards the paths the rivers took to come

down from fire to sea, passing mountains, that turned people

into stone, that surrounded the valley I was bred in just to taste

the salt that turned my blood into poetry and thought me to

play guitar just so I could become a bard and sing the song

about the foreigner wayward child, who shattered the illusion

of breed, becoming a shark sailing the seas, becoming a snake

searching the land, conceiving half-caste children, made kings

in their own land, made beggars in blood-stained soil, made

seeds, unbroken, unbend, and dreadful for their own kin,

stopping their daughters to grow wings and fly like birds

towards the sun, cursing them to die in the desert that if

crossed could save or at least give anyone hope, cursing them

to fight until their last breath merges with the breeze and the

last whisper of their soul wishes for the next generation to

finally find a clearing in the jungle to call forevermore home.