El Cromosoma

It's been a long time since I don't care a bit
that the last stretch of my path
falls far from Rome.
It's been a long time since I don't play the riddle
so esoteric of a father and a son
and a white dove.
And the truth is I don't despair
since the day the famous wood
was eaten by woodworm.
But if they ask me and I say it,
aside from a few intimate friends,
everyone thinks it's a joke.
And since that's no joke
they expect God to strike me with the torch
that scorched Sodom,
or at least for me to say reassuringly
that I've become a Muslim or Protestant,
we speak another language.
Because the last thing I needed
was to have to cling to the robe
of the prophet Muhammad,
or to Luther's gut, or even Buddha's
I prefer to walk with a doubt
than with a bad axiom.
Because I doubt that at the end of this matter
it won't end with a period
but with a semicolon,
and I don't expect a heaven or a hell
I trust most that I'll be something eternal
thanks to the chromosome.
I can live my story calmly
knowing that at the gates of glory
my nose doesn't peek out
death doesn't fill me with sadness
the flowers that will sprout from my head
will give off some aroma.