Ballerina

You have to be a ballerina,
dancing your life away
your slippers drenched in blood,
your black swan dying
from too much tenderness;
You have to be a wild woman
chained to a mighty oak
by The Good Shepherd
who lets you fall asleep and dream
you are Buddha
your dark tresses flowing in the
river of all your dreams,
you have to awaken
one day,
the sun in your eyes
laughing in the wide smile
of a torch-red poppy,
translucent
with the moon.