Existe una ciudad de cuarzo exquisita
cuyas rosadas calles yo recorrí
siguiendo su sinuosidad caprichosa
en ensoñaciones o tiempos de ensueño;
contemplé su nimbada altura de sol
en un baño de anochecientes tinturas
que raro artista podrá nunca pintar.

Mis ojos velados de recuerdos hoy
reflejan las puertas cerradas, oscuras;
los muros, cercantes con custodio rol,
que se alzan, fieros y hostiles, ante mí.
Yo hago frente, y grito con voz poderosa
mas no caen los muros y voy a quedar
fuera de la ciudad de cuarzo exquisita.

Un sol de invierno ilumina la mar arrugada
empujada por el olor a sal.
Hoy he venido junto a la orilla a escribir de una chica
pero

huele a mar,
y el olor salado trae recuerdos dulces.
Huele a cubos y palas,
a olas blandas de bandera verde,
a la infantil valentía de salir al sol
quedando la edad adulta a cobijo.

Huelo la brisa que airea fotos que solo yo guardo
De mi abuelo enterrándome en la playa
–sonrio por verle de nuevo–,
saltos de fe desde los brazos de mi padre,
y castillos desafiando al océano entero.
Huelo veranos infinitos para lo pequeño que soy.

Yo vine aquí a escribir sobre una chica,
pero tengo arena en los recuerdos
y me drogaron la brisa y la mar.

Mal humor en una mañana de resaca,
reza así el titular.
¿Qué pasó anoche? Nada. Traición en la noche.
De expectativas, de miradas,
traición de bebida y de risas y roces.
Traición invisible en la noche;
mía, quizás. Otra vez.
—mala secuela, recibe 2 estrellas y la tachan de repetitiva—

Llegamos in medias res, lleva tiempo la cinta.
Estrellas y personas flotan en la piscina.
Ella flota al lado de mí en la piscina
—sin verme—,
yo floto por puro orgullo en la piscina,
—aguas de fracaso—,
y él flota también, sin verlo yo a él,
—a su lado—.
Distraido por premisas inconclusas,
por un cielo de ebrias estrellas
en el que nos zambullimos por la noche...
por la noche distraido, y distraido por la noche...
no noto cuando
despega el dolor de pecho y estómago.

La noche no se para para mí
—iluso, eso está reservado—
pero bebo para aminorar,
¿quizás demasiado?
¿La bacanal fiesta se retrasa?
Tonto, empezó ya sin ti.
La estatua de dos, a lo lejos,
se muestra en un trago de verdad.
Toca tierra el dolor de pecho y estómago.
Lo noto.
A falta de pistola sirve botella en boca.
Se vaticina
mal humor en una mañana de resaca.

Some are fearful of opening boxes
closed and sealed long ago,
scared of the stream which,
freed from its prison of oblivion,
may leave them wet of feelings.

Some are afraid of solstices and equinoxes,
of the time when the sun touches the
ground,
of the different shades of the nightsky
in cyclic and never-ending succession...
of the sound of sand against the glass.

Like a vessel weathering
the rising and falling mountains
of a tempestuous sea,
whose captain roars, wrathful,
though never yearns for blue skies,
do not ever shrink back at this metamorphic existence!

And you, my friend, oh be brave!
Do not cry the losses,
not in excess,
do not ever feel sorrow for that old past!

Live like water,
whom gravity forces to sinuously descend,
yet it beats all its enemies in the way
to the restful sea of joy.

But you, oh my friend, be brave!
Do not be fearful of change...

...because change is what we call life.

When inspiration leaves,
leaves falling from a yellow-wood in fall;
you feel your hands freeze,
you fell your life halt.

It's the winter of the mind,
just surviving, existing,
not living but believing
that so is life, being soul blind.

The expectancy for the rising sun,
the endless wait for the muses to come
back from wherever they are hiding,
or perhaps, away from me they are flying.

When inspiration comes...
soldiers returning home,
not only welcomed yet being longed for.
Inspiration is the end of thought war.

Ecstasy, euphoria, catharsis,
the world moves, it quits from stasis.
And from the depths of the blackest darkness,
its light brightens, shines and rises.

¿Por qué es difícil la poesía?
Como de un venero brotan,
luego perdidos en demasía,
versos al estanque de descartes,
¡tantos que creo se agotan!
Mas, ¿por qué no gozan
de escaño en la verbal melodía?

Alma que al papel hiere con arte
deja como sello un verso.
Sea eso sólo cierto en parte,
no sé si el folio terso
como el cuero se ha visto curtido,
o es de mi pluma fallo,
cubierta por azafrán de marte,
o soy yo que mi alma he perdido,
pues de lineas queda el papel vestido
y poesía en ellas no hallo.

At the precise hour,
known only by the silent beings which may rule our fates,
the Path is started punctually
by the walker, not sauntering,
fully purposefully marching
towards the unclear end
of this sinuous track
that is not yet built but
already walked,
with no guidance, no map,
for they are useless in this road
-should that be learnt by everyone-
the only help for the determined
Walker
is to recall that they know how to walk,
and so,
step one foot after the other
until they arrive at the destination;
successfully.

Chimneys and chimneys of thoughts
expel to the saturated atmosphere
tension and discomfort
that poison the factory workers with fear
to cut the flow of oneiric smoke
and interact.

Imprisoned inside the glass and metal fence,
pushing away petrous gargoyles,
the overbooked air, thick and dense,
expands as pressure rises
with too much thinking
and too little talking.

But the doors open and there's a leak
as the seats their captors release,
some of who, immersed in their abstraction,
forget that's time for the sentence to cease
while the subconscious arises.

Only when the mind gears stop and leave,
leaving emptiness in the wagons,
so does the tangible machinery
and the train rests, peacefully,
at the end of the line.

The film just ended
and I am faithfully here,
waiting.

Independently of my dependence on you
and that now
I am not concerned about my concerns,
I wait, for your message

because I have sacrificed quite a bit
for such an uncertain reward as your love might be
—I almost wrote lofe—,
and waiting for a reply is a bit quieter.

I'm sure you must be busy,
I am busy too,
thinking 'bout you,
waiting
like I have been for months I guess,
till you realised that
I am not the only one in need of the other.

During this wandering,
'Have you answered?'
that's my ocassional wondering,
but I check, and you haven't.
Doesn't matter. I just wanted to write
while I wait. Somewhat patiently.
(Laughs)

However, it is close to 01:30, thus,
as said my role, Demetrius,
in our adaptation or version:
"I'm tired. I think I'll get some rest."

─Pausa─
("Abre los ojos"). Abro los ojos.
La cámara cuelga del cuello, más allá, allá a lo lejos, fuera,
     detrás del cristal.
La trenza, color naranja verano,
     tras el cristal,
o más bien estío anaranjado porque no brilla.
                                                         ­   Serán sus ojos.
                                                           ­       Sus ojos sí,
                                                           az­ules. Brillan.
No zafiros, no cristales que reflejan el cielo,
no aguas cristalinas tono aguamarina.
Ojos azules que encandilan,
y una sonrisa,
ambos con guiño. Tienen guiño los ojos sin cerrarse.
Tiene guiño la sonrisa sin ser ojo.
"Sígueme" y solo mis ojos comprenden.
¿Qué haces? ¿Dónde vas? Quédate, ¡para!
Quédate más tiempo mirándome
     por el cristal
(qué debería hacerse añicos de lo fuerte que estoy mirando).
Allá va la espiga, brinca en la calle Velarde,
frente al portal número 5.
Dentro terminan de tomar aire. Cierro los ojos.
─Fin de la pausa─.

Christmas wind blows through the street
and, like an ethereal snowflake,
warmth comes windborne
to every Christmaslighted home;
including mine.

And the delicate Christmas zephyr
has relit the hearth within
me, seeking to touch the stars,
source of its fiery essence...
maybe it is you, brought by the Christmas wind.

And I'm submerged in sapphire waters
breathlessly drowning in thoughts of blue
that entail a poetic ascension which,
brought by the Christmas wind, must be you.

And though drafts of subdued indecisions
faze me from abroad the garden of Eden
Christmas wind straightens the vane
for I believe I have found what'll **** me, then.
It is you.

I'll try to find my love this year,
I'll try to make the spark appear,
and while I'm writing these short lines...
"Does she want to be mine?"
Though now there aren't worries, my heartbeat's steady,
I only hope that in the moment I'll find myself ready.

It's hard to believe that sometimes people despise it,
the feeling of two lovers to each other attracted.
Yes, it's true! You can and you may suffer!
And that can make love look and seem much tougher,
But it's like the old saying: no pain, no gain,
that's why I can't wait to fall in love again.

A thin beam of light in the night,
born in the lamp beside me,
glitters and blinds my sight;

and the full brightness shades,
when I look thought it, the walls of the room
behind the shinning, behind my little moon.

For the place is not lightened
but what should have been brightened
is caught in the dimness's embrace.

Darkening even more its face
when solving the problem yourself hates...
That's a shadow of light for me.

There is winter in the air,
and its unnoticeable presence
makes its way into the world of the obvious
to reveal that it has always been there.

And, in the approach to a non-existing summer,
the mind is to awake,
for all that it knows is as fake
as the mask concealing the countenance.

Like a statue of time,
the immutable remains a-changing,
for it is in its nature, not ageing,
with no jury to judge this will.

Then, in the end, again
we'll turn our heads and gaze at winter
and fathom that it does not vanish nor fade,
in a continuous existence and uncertain fate,
cause the truth is there's no winter.

In the kingdom of blue and grey
sadness tints
the emotionless hearts of men
just willing to go to sleep.

Days are to be hated,
looking in anger at the black daysky
from the insides of our caverns,
away from the hurting rain
which wears out feelings.

And we'll gather around the fireplace,
sinking our hearts in liquid darkness
that lights them up
while peeking into other worlds.

But the dreary atmosphere
still be poisoning our souls,
the ghostly shades of them,
leftovers of our true selves,

Then, go to bed and sleep!
Give up! And in your fortress
of sweet soft blankets,
dream of a new dawn
in a new kingdom.

Pale skin
as black as the pupils staring,
─abyssal waters reflecting the space─
infected by dark blood infused
with a silver needle.

Was the canvas blank in its genesis,
for The Painter to leave imprints,
the fertile land now shrinks
as grows the shadow.

Though, distinct are the beauties,
and in the homogenous mass
of interwoven living forms
each of them outshines the rest
─with its darkness─
when the eye halts,
when the focus is trapped;
trapped and submerged in the story.

At length, of life
the host is corpse.
The drawing is complete,
no spaces to fill,
and the useless body
occupies its place in the cemetery.

When you finish,
keep quiet,
enjoy the moment of
silence.

I woke up this morning
and found a tree in my yard.
It was yellow as corn in
the trunk, soft and hard.

There I planted once a tree,
though Death took it, never grew.
Now I stand in front and see
it; appeared out of the blue.

Lovely is my tree of gold,
has a branch from which will hang a swing,
motionless when outdoors is cold,
dancing blissfully in spring.

And I will wipe its golden tears,
and watch that no one cuts it down.
I'll guard my tree for many years,
behold its ever-changing gown.

But I blink.

Cold and sudden blows the wind
and the trunk now seems like rotten
while all leaves fall and spin.

My tomorrow hopes become forgotten
as I see the wood bend and bow
and my helplessness burns like molten.

The night, black as a crow,
covers the corpse-to-be
that's waiting impatiently in the death row.

With a distinct cracking sound,
the omen bird takes flight.
I do not weep and do not cry
while I get inside my house so warm,
it's the second time I see it die,
having not lived nor even been born,
and I ran out of tears the first time.

A silver second
has just fallen to the ground
and the whole world now trembles
with pleasure.

Time stopped
as does it at times like this one.

A single tear
drops from the lover's eye
for the moment's been the most blissful thing ever.

It's gone now, though,
it passed and will never be repeated,
lost in dreams, and in the streams and whirls of time,
striving to endure, to survive,
hoping to transmute into a memory.

Consigo una pizca de mi felicidad
casi sin querer prolongar en tu coche
cuando, de noche, me devuelves a casa.

Me transluzco incrédulo de mi sonrisa
porque en el silencio del motor callado
no me besaste pero siento ahí un peso,
donde tanto roce desgastó la piel,
como hacen muchas pisadas el camino,
donde no queda ya labio, solo beso,
que prefiere ser carne a solo recuerdo.

Y atrapo carnívoramente la presión
sentida, suave e invisible en mis labios
para que no se vuele por accidente,

pero tú lo desatas distraídamente
y dejas uno fresco sobre mi boca,
y yo dejo al hipocampo recoger
este beso ya pasado que se esfuma;
perturbe así mis sueños todos por siempre.