Natural Freedom

Translated by: Bárbara Emídio

I feel comfort when I remember that the garden in my backyard will continue to be a garden even after my death—it just won’t be my backyard. What a pristine thing, the property, whose insignificance is as much or more than mine. The tree in front of my house will not die when the sure rhythm of my heart stagnates. Inside its wood, strong and useful, there will still run sap and, in my weak and purposeless body, the blood will rot. 

After my not so tragic death, the garden in my backyard will grow wild. It will no longer be limited by my impoverished tastes, the result of the ignorance that surrounds me. The garden will finally be nature. When my death occurs, which few will cry, my garden will not cry. Before my ascension to the stars, when I join those who once were, perhaps the heavens will cry, perhaps they will water my garden. Without grief, the garden will regain its ideal shape, its natural shape. By the time it gets there, I will already be a strange fossil, with bizarre calcified roots that nothing feeds on. From my body nothing will grow. From my death will grow natural freedom. From my soul perhaps art will grow.