II
I don't envy the heroes of this world, however. From infancy, I carry a river, weeping willows and killdeer birds, a familiar affection and amazement before life's wonders, a precocious infatuation and consequences of primary indifference. Fifty winters I've walked directionless sharing liquor and books and logs of a local pine; autumn presented me with raining leaves and desert winds; spring the intoxicating freshness of its flowers and honey and summer loving skins made golden by brewing suns.
III
But it wasn't all honey and readings. I've struggled. I've battled against armies of ignorance and ignominity, against caustic words of envy, the venom of commotions, deadly jealously and an insecurity with a soldier mask; many times I was conferred the flag of triumphs, other times I was defeated by the bites and laughs of hyenas. From these defeats I've healed my wounds with the salt of time. In my veins I keep the lemonaded memories of familiar deaths.
IV
They have also murdered my friends in fields teeming with hawks; I've lost family to liquor, mental illnesses and old age; I've been covered by the swampy waters of depression and sadness; suicide was a shadow accompanying me on a night of impotence and I know corners where the cockroach licks his last hours. That's why I've locked in a small trunk of oblivion the bitterness that provokes evilness and a rash in the soul; I'm always on guard against envy and deadly decoys, resentment and a lack of stamina to walk through the night.
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