Penciliving and other meltdowns on the beauty of the sad boys, those who keep in their pupils’ intensity, a terrorist’s extremity, on the one who can’t choose between two paths and in the middle prey becomes, on the mouth full of salt and the sea’s cries that for its remembrance exalt, on a mouth that stings from no return, from the inside and inwards, this is the only way of writing I know. Gather your broken heart, and confess yourself: make love to your battles, submerge into poetry like an impostor holding their breath in an amphibian world, vow to yourself (and thereby, the most worthy of all the loves) the eternal freedom.
One of Chris Pueyo’s poems from his poetry book “Aquí dentro siempre llueve” (“Here Inside Is Always Raining”). The author is a talented young Madrid student, a fresh writer, with poetic and musical approach to life. Own translation by me. My translation of selected poems of his: N*1