Maybe I am just

a rag of flesh made of
water and carbon, articulated here
and there by weak joints,
no less sophisticated than those of chickens,
donkeys, hyenas. And this place
that I call earth is not paradise.
But here I learned the Castilian language,
with its intricate morphology and its
no less dangerous syntax. Here I made a
nest in the trees and planted friends
and here I had the love called love,
and daughters, perhaps daughters of water
and carbon. I accept my destiny as an atom
that runs between birthdays and funerals,
the scheduled time to come out.
Maybe I am a variable, an algorithm,
a value assigned to an unknown,
an X waiting for what to happen in the rain.