I do not get used to this world of expensive things, cheap people, values on sale, feelings in liquidation and hearts in bankruptcy. That's what we expect, not get used to it. And the best way to not get used to it, is showing that things are expensive while people are willing to pay for it, people are cheap when they have a price, of value, the values are down, when the ambition is placed before the feelings, feelings in liquidation are, when hope is lost. And so hope that those who wait will not count the hours. And while we are still waiting, hope is not lost. That someday love arrives, that when it arrives it will materialize and be almost perfect, have patience when you think you have found it, that the one that goes away becomes full than the one you share, do not be disappointed with the one you already have, be eternal, and that every night is a honeymoon. And while we continue waiting, we do not lack the desire to move forward, that all dreams, at some point become reality. That the makeup does not extinguish your smile, that the baggage does not ballast your wings, that the calendar does not come in a hurry, that the dictionary stops the bullets, that the blinds correct the dawn, that the desire wins, longing and the I can, Let those who wait not to count the hours, let those who will die of fear. Let the end of the world surprise you dancing, let the stage fill you with success, Never know how, or when you are flying, just fly. That a genuine heart does not go out of style, that the autumns gild your skin, that truths do not have complexes, that lies look like a lie, that mirrors do not give you reason, that you take advantage of looking at what you see. Do not worry about you helplessness, that every dinner is your last supper, that being brave does not come out so expensive, that being a coward is not worth it. Do not buy for less than anything, do not sell love without thorns, do not fall asleep with fairy tales, do not close the bar on the corner. That in spite of everything, while you wait, be yourself and that your authenticity is your greatest trophy.

No me aconstumbro, ah desperta sin ti
Quizas el olvido llegó alos lazos del amor,
No me aconstumbro a vivir sin amor ,
En estas noches tan fria, como el invierno, ..
No me acostumbro a vivir entre la odscuridad sin los lamentós al ser penetrenada en esta imensa... odscurida, donde te colmó de besos y gemidos ,levantando el alba entre mis ganas te pintó mi alma como tatuajes en tu ser,
No me aconstumbro a dejar de saborear, tu eròstimo entre mis labios , suncumbe los sentidos , al desperta con mis besos las partes erógenas y los rincónes de tu cuerpo.. quien esparce mi lengua su deleite , humedad entre mis labios, que acaricia saciandote, en cada exclamò de placer, ...
no me aconstumbro...
Ah vivir sin amor, en esta noches, que despierta mi ansieda de ser mujer...
entre mis labios jugosos y humedos suncunbem
que hoy entrego en tus labios, que juegas con mis ganas no me acostumbro entre mis gemidos gritando en el silencio de mi cuerpo, quien difruta de tu erótismo , grande y gruesp penetrandome , con el vaiven de tu cuerpo. Metiendo, y sacando mis ganas de mi cuerpo ,que sube en ti donde mi húmeda difruta su baile de erotico, jugando con tus dedos en mi cavida sale un gemido de placer, que grito al cielo , implorando no terminar , no me aconstumbro a vivir sin ti

Your memory with me in this land that you loved so much, accompanies me on that same sea of so much blue that has not left a day of your absence to ask for you with wave and wave, under this same sky that not one day will leave your memory, for that same air that does not find any loneliness like yours, nor heart that moves for its high heartbeat.
By The Silhouette of your beaches, profiles of your mountains, which make pure tremor the Poniente sun, by Glens Hondísimas without water, streams of adelfares where it beats deep under the dry an eternal edge, which unites the high sierras to the seas, cubríales pobrísimos , slates, ruins of vineyards and mills, almendrales ghosts, who lend some mild snow to these winters, among these sierras that surround your maternal city, among these things that do not go, which go inside, and so safe, between What happens, something remains forever: memory and feelings.
We feel that the moment remains motionless with those who want, pure stone in the Sierra, lost water, fire burning perennial, Sea Motionless, hardness of a mirror touched by the single vision of beauty, just instant to love that to the Humans make us eternal, angels are standing in the air of the hours.
I feel the air alive with naming you, the warm heart with feeling, more beautiful this landscape that here is still with the loneliness of you, with its nostalgic beauty in your gaze.

Who said that the sea sighs, lips of love to the beaches, sad?

Let it be wrapped by the light camp, glory in height and in the sea, gold.
Ah Sovereign light that surrounds, sings the unfading age of the sea.
There, reminiscing, without time, the sea exists.
A heart of a goddess without death, beats.

The night sings in silence of stars and a radiant light awakens to the quiet sea, between the sublime of a mermaid singing.
The Moon is very beautiful is the perfect goddess, her face is painted on the infinite sea.
I looked at the horizon when everyone slept and she came down from the sky wrapped in white clouds
The adorned sea gave him a thousand kisses, she corresponds to her sweet smile.
The Sea and the moon are lovers, they are secret lovers, silent, perfect, they are eternal lovers, their love is sacrosanct and at the same time it is a reflection of a forbidden love, of that love that unites us, of that love hidden and revealed Look.
On the moon nights, the scene is repeated, they are the sea and the moon in peaceful delivery, they are like our souls that furtive mix, with fragrance to spray of a night asleep, with infinite madness of two, crazy in love, of two Naked bodies that feed on kisses, are the sea and the moon consumed in fire.

Sometimes deciding
  who you are is
deciding who you'll
  never be again....

"I went falling in love with ty"
I went falling in love with you,
Not to make you mine
But to make us.

Little by little, slowly,
I fell again in the illusion,
Where from time to time
Love hesitation and cheats.

Sometimes I saw you while
You looked at me, dreaming,
Cherish, creating.
I thought of everything and you.

And it's that I believed
In your eyes, in the word
From every day you do,
In your emotions,
In some smile of yours.

I knew, or rather
I meant that my presence was
In you as in me yours
When you weren't even.

And I expected a
Good action to convert
The days in roses,
The Moon in water,
Your hair in my hands.

But I knew that I didn't
Was, you were leaving without
Having personally desengañando me
That we were not us
Just you and me separating.

And me there watching you again
And you know nothing.
I went falling in love with you,
Little by little, slowly.
And little by little I was doing it.

I have seen an angel, wearing one of its broken wings, crying, holding the pen to write but had nowhere to translate his writing. In the other hand, he held his wounded soul, as if the heart vanished in silence, I wanted to know if it was pain or the fact of not being able to fly or write sad, I went to see him and I saw with stupor, that I looked like.
The angel is not sad, just lay as a spring inside because he is not allowed to fall from heaven.
An angel cries, when the light of the soul has gone out when a wing has broken and we are condemned to walk among mortals when it changes its brightness to embrace and surrender its life.
An angel weeps when love has gone and the fast-flowing river has dried up of innocence, of beauty, of the subtlety of the enamored soul, seeing the legs of the mired souls who have lost the gift of walking, between stanzas of poetry, that they have lost the gift of opening their hearts, to the love that lives hidden among stories, between stories and prophecies, they have lost their amazement and surprise, they have lost the gift of love.
An angel cries, when love has gone to oblivion when the hooting of the wind cannot overcome the deep silence of a love that has departed or a friendship disguised as deception.
An angel cries knowing that someone has left, walking after other steps on a lost path, dressed in mourning because his mission and reason for existence are over.
Losing a wing, only means, becoming human and not being able to love, forgetting how to dream, what love is like and how it is to truly love, from the depths of the soul, without letting ourselves be embraced.
Therefore, in a distant path, where dream and reality come together, where dreams of past lives become future realities, there, where the name awaits perennial, where the light baggage becomes, where the word floats and the letters spill beyond the dream of dreams itself, on the threshold of the crow that perches on the lintel, beyond the mortal body and soul, where beings and ghosts are one, forgetful of journeys and captive souls, in the secluded corner, hidden obscurity that seizes, where the wind and the mist listen silences and the crowd in lost dawns, in your memory that lathe, smoke of molten ash, in the desperate cry, oppression of vague prejudices, in the muddied mind, poisons of tormented blood, beyond name and disorder, in normal sanity of madness, on the other side of this masquerade, hiding unbridled passions.
There, distant lands of blessed insolence, in wind and fire, air and smoke, in the dream of dreams.
There and only there, I will find the name of an Angel with broken wings.