Those who are not chosen

Those who are not chosen walk with tears in their eyes,
moved by songs in foreign languages.
They wear a smile on their chest.
They feel happy, they dream again.

Those who are not chosen have to drink water, for lack of kisses.
They eat a giant watermelon, alone, at the kitchen counter, and save half of it,
imagining that it is spring again and that they have someone to share it with.

Those who are not chosen read books, pronounce words, hug friends, lift weights, take the subway,
laugh at the jokes and dance to the songs…
while they keep the memory.

Those who are not chosen go on trips, explore the world, play.
They hide in the bookstore and play finding themselves.
They grow old, but their eyes shine, ready for the encounter.
They know that the price of freedom is sacrifice. And its gift, magic.
They get comfort.

What happened in that train car was suspended in time.
The train moved on into infinity.
Nothing is lost.

Those who are not chosen are brave.
They toss the coin and feel like they've already won. They are thankful.
Committed to what they once had, they visit each other in feelings: limerance, melancholy, love, longing.
They send messages through the sun.

Leaning against the tree, they observe everything that is green.
They finally understand the intricate web of life. No one knows if they are wise, ignorant, guilty, or innocent.
They celebrate their madness and, with courage, they find company
in the privacy of not having been elected.