Who knows me,
really knows me?
Not my work,
Not my artistic style,
Not my iconic look,
Not my unibrow,
Not my peasant skirts,
Not the sparkle in my eye,
Not my tragic life story,
Not my demolished love story,
Not my two-timed marriage,
Not my tourist-infested studio,
Not my money-making name.
When all the trappings of my existence have burned out,
like eternal stars,
stars that I mothered
that I gathered to my childless bosom,
when all trace of my existence has been erased,
will you know me,
really know me?
For I am simply Frida.
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