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Gioconda Belli

I do not regret anything

From the woman I am,
sometimes I get to watch
those that could have been;
the gorgeous women,
hardworking, good wives,
paragon
wishing my mother.

do not know why I have spent a lifetime
rebelling against them.
Hate your threats on my body.
's fault that their lives impeccable
strange curse,
inspire me.
disowns his good offices;
of tears hidden from the husband,
of shame of their nakedness
under the pressed and starched underwear.
These women, however,
looking at me from inside the mirror, lift your finger

and sometimes, I give her reproachful looks
and I win universal acceptance,
be the "good girl" the "honest woman" La Gioconda
impeccable.
me out ten
conduct the party, the state, friendship,
my family, my children and all other beings abundant
that populate this world of ours.

In this inevitable contradiction between what should have been and what it is,
I have fought many battles deadly battles
bites
them against me-they dwell in me wanting to be myself-
maternal transgressing commandments
sore and tear women stumbled internal

that since childhood, I twist the
eyes because they do not fit the perfect mold of your dreams,
because I dare to be this crazy, fallible, tender and vulnerable,
who falls like a lost soul just causes
, handsome men,
and playful words.
Because, as an adult, I dared to live the childhood closed, and I love
on desktops
-in-office hours and broke ties inviolable

and dared to enjoy a healthy body and

winding with the genes of all my ancestors
endowed me.
do not blame anyone. Rather, I appreciate the gifts.
I do not regret anything, and said Edith Piaf.
But in the dark well I'm falling,
when, in the morning, no more open my eyes, feel the tears
bidding;
see these other women waiting in the lobby, brandishing
convictions against my happiness. Undaunted

good girls surrounding me his children's songs and dance with me against this woman

fledged, full
.
This woman breast breasts and hips

wide, for my mother and against it, I like being
.

Strike

I want a strike where we go all.
A strike of arms, legs, hair, born
a strike in each body.


I want a strike of workers of pigeons
of flowers drivers technician

children of women physicians.

I want a big strike, that even love
scope.
A strike where everything stops, the clock factories

school campus Hospitals

bus road ports.

A strike of eyes, hands and kisses.
A strike where breathing is not allowed, which strikes
born
silence to hear the footsteps of the tyrant who leaves.

Recorriéndote

I want to bite your flesh, salt
strong start with your arms

beautiful as branches of kapok,
follow that breast they dream my dreams
that breast-cave where he hides my head poking
tenderness,
that breast-sounding drums and continued life.
stay there for a long time messing my hands

in that clump of bushes that you
grows soft under my bare skin black
to follow after your navel
toward the center where you start tingling,
go kissing, biting,

there until this little place
-tight and secret-
who rejoices in my presence that anticipates

and comes to greet me in all its harshness
male inflamed. Download

then your legs strong as your beliefs guerrilla
those legs where your height is based
with which to come to me
which I hold, which
entangled in the night between
mine soft and feminine.
kiss your feet, love,
that both have to go without me even
and re escalarte
to tighten your lips with mine,
to fill all of your saliva and your breath until you enter

me with the force
tidal and invade me with your comings and goings of the raging sea

and we'll be the two lines and sweaty in the sand
sheets.