a thousand years from now exists
a world that thrums purely on the energies of nature.
a thousand years from now exists
a world whose stories you now
create.

Dear you,
I wrote you a letter last night in the middle of an anxiety attack. I didn't know it was addressed to you until about halfway through, but it only makes sense that it all comes back to you. I guess I wanted to write everything that was going on in my head onto paper, to stop thinking about everything and everyone, including you. I keep saying I'm happy for you that things are getting better for you and that you're happier now but I think everyone knows I'm just pretending that I'm not in ruins that you left me for dead. I hope you think about me sometimes, I hope you remember who I used to be.
Love, always,
Me.

You lived alone in the solititude
Of pure hundred years in Colombia
Roaming in Amacondo with a Spanish tongue
Carrying the bones of your grandmother in a sisal sag
On your poverty written Colombian back,
Gadabouting to make love in times of cholera,
On none other than your bitter-sweet memories
Of your melancholic ***** the daughter of Castro,
Your cowardice made you to fear your momentous life
In this glorious and poetic time of April 2014,
Only to succumb to untimely black death
That similarly dimunitized your cultural ancestor;
Miguel de Cervantes, a quixotic Spaniard,
You were to write to the colonel for your life,
Before eating the cockerel you had ear-marked
For Olympic cockfight, the hope of the oppressed,
Come back from death, you dear Marquez
To tell me more stories fanaticism to surrealism,
From Tarzanic Africa the fabulous land
An avatar of evil gods that are impish propre
Only Vitian Naipaul and Salman Rushdie are not enough,
For both of them are so naïve to tell the African stories,
I will miss you a lot the rest of my life, my dear Garbo,
But I will ever carry your living soul, my dear Garcia,
Soul of your literature and poetry in a Maasai kioondo
On my broad African shoulders during my journey of art,
When coming to America to look for your culture
That gave you versatile tongue and quill of a pen,
Both I will take as your memento and crystallize them
Into my future thespic umbrella of orature and literature.

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

I can tell you
Who am I
Where do I come from
What I believe
What do I refrain from

I can tell you
My fear
My pain
How my skin rejoices
When it touches rain

I can tell you
how free am I
bound with you
How fast my heart beats
walking slowly with you

I can tell you
How I am going to wreck your mind with a stare
And rip your tender soul
beyond repair

But you won't let me
You won't ever believe me
You'll believe me to stitch all the broken pieces of you
You'll believe me to admire your skin and flatter your ego

I will,
Always.

But if you hide your scars
Your stupid ugly dance
Your fumbles and mistakes
Your moments of disgrace

I won't rip your soul
I'll leave you in your catacomb,
Safe and secure
Like a ship on the shore