In Crete there was once
A king who had a minotaur
That follows me to every place,
And with me rushes headlong into emptiness
And complains about the perpetuity of its monstrous head.
The only solution is in my own fear,
In the need to lend it my own head
So that the minotaur could see the world
And learn of its flu and its anxieties,
Of its alarming brilliance.
Knowing at last
That every single head is a small monstrosity
And that in the end,
A labyrinth may always exist.