Duende, the shadow that is not absence
but the opposite of light.
Roots sucking metamorphic darkness
up out of soil.
Mineral density borrowed by the bone,
unknown to the mischievous the brain,
the earth pulsing deep beneath the world
the vibrant ache of knowing you are alive.
Morning sun haunted by night,
a flower reveals the wilt of the bloom
while smitten by the convenience of light
ravishments of delight, blood too hot to touch.
I speak of fear that is not afraid,
fetal pleasure dreaming of a yet to be lived life,
hope scorching the marrow of the soul,
a heart that withstands the mitigations of cheer.
In the hours after midnight,
when the eye can no longer distinguish comedy from tragedy,
when sunset becomes sunrise,
when the empty heart and the full heart are the same,
when the mind grows confident of uncertainty,
when the human ache finds solace in sadness,
duende wells up in the intimacy of yes with no.
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Duende = a sense of sorrow and mischief at play in human life expressed in Spanish culture.