Upset for being thwarted
by the silence that echoed in the living room
when they read the fruits of his planned poem
that sleeps and let its verses rest.

From the blue and starry sky to the blackness of closed windows,
I dreamt of seeing a dark world, full of painted stars;
I dreamt of seeing human people and the moon man
walking, bringing hope to my naked face.

I have never been Shakespeare or Rimbaud, I'm not Poe and won't be Neruda.
I'll be myself and nothing much, for being this way,
because every word I speak or write will be deaf
and will hardly vary as time goes by for me.

And the music that sounds, sweats from my depths,
and the chords, the steps they dance,
the happy faces, scattered people, strangers,
don't get lost, never get tired.

I'm the variant poet, the oscillating poet...
I'm like a bird that glides in its imagination,
I'm the accompanied poet, lost in loneliness,
I'm a full train that derails.

On this side, the future - on the other, ancient mansions.
On that, decassyllable ladies, machines and sparse letters
suspended, watching old lanterns and scarse memories
from this youth, myself and I in my lying emotions.