Dysfunction in the Denial of Normal
Dysfunction in the Denial of Normal
Normal is a bird without a nest, flying through empty minds,
no one has ever caught it in the net of clear reason,
each of us paints it with the brush of dreaming,
with pigments extracted from nightmares and bitter illusions.
Dysfunction is the cradle in which some were born,
stammering in murky waters, without shore, without escape,
they look at normality as a pointless ghost,
a strange monster come from another world, from another horizon.
Who can say whether normal isn't sick?
Whether chaos is the straight line that leads us to truth?
Nature was the only normal one in its sacred spirals,
until man stuck his fingers in the bitter pie.
He searches for the plums insatiably in the world's cake,
leaving behind swamps of tar and suffocations,
the oceans are floating cemeteries of soft plastic,
and the whales drown in thousands of funeral sheets.
Man has killed God in every empty net,
in every bird greased with oil and agony,
created in the divine image, but without the heavenly soul,
he destroys the sacred garden for a paper coin.
Dysfunction is the normal of a species that turns
against its own blood and its own home,
perhaps our disappearance will be the holiest miracle,
Earth will bloom again when the last man fades in the distance.
And then, in the silence without fingers that tear everything,
nature will breathe healed from our madness,
normal will return like a crystal-clear liquor,
without us, without the chaos we carry in our skulls.
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