Freedom

Fourteen Years? No, Eighteen Years—
I think of you
in narrow hallways,
in the presence of silent, lightless walls.

Eighteen years? No, twenty years—
I wait for you
when the sun, at rest,
leans against my face,
when I mock my own pain.

Twenty years? No, thirty years—
I stare at you
through the tiniest crack in the wall,
the one that promises collapse.

Thirty years? No, fifty years—
with your scent,
in every spring,
I am young again.

Fifty years? No, a hundred years—
you remain the same.
Time will never change you.
Freedom...