My shelves and desks
they are full of pencils
of varied origins
some unknown

How did they arrive?
I have not been to all
Mysterious Arrivals
from unknown places

But they are here and there
blacks, blues
yellows, reds
even some of indefinable colors

All write well
good pencils
And it's funny
Well, I do not write

Sterile ***** of sharp stones,
shattered rocks,
dust
and more dust.

The eyes glued,
burning,
my muscles are ropes,
and nothing stops this cold.

Be suspended,
canceled from the world,
the words fall apart,
in a silent pain.

Where is the desire?

Can not reach,
I don't feel it,
I dont believe it,
no more


However I craved,
almost compulsive,
what I do not have,
what I do not catch

Beyond the edge of the horizon,
with the breath of the world on my back,
and a look where the days and nights are reflected

She walks lightly
or rather go
from a distance she seems fragile
Her smile confuses us happily

Seeing the look, doubt grows,
just some glint of her eyes
give fractions of some certainty,
just for moments

At the time
you already know that height is not measured
that her hands are from the earth
that if the water demands her
she dives

She needs the Sun,
she is a being of the mornings
enjoy the aroma of dew
of those who nourish
of those that sprout and make sprout

She is tribal
the pain demands from her certainties
because the harmony slips from the soul
she is human, very human.

Now I see she
alone on the road,
fly to be light
dancing down the *****,
in the silence of the morning.

Words are things, say the Wolof .....

Words have a body and walk.
We almost that much ......
or almost nothing.

A red falls and floods everything,
like unforeseen thunder
the laughter is not for the masks,
they should be for the faces.

Do you agree?

Here and there .....
life,
not a sweet consolation,
without incentive,
just life

At times
my hands fall,
and my body gives way,
not always

Words have a body and walk,
if they stay still they die,
we have to feed them
said the Wolof

What caught my attention?

Her honest smile,
Her intense eyes.
Her curly hair.
Her relaxed face.

His soft and low voice.

What surprised me?

The ease with which she disarmed my complexities.
The sweetness with which she walked in all my corners.
the sonorous joy with her that filled the spaces.

Her love
frank, direct,
without folds,
without anesthesia!


What I amused by her?

Our culinary experiments.
Her uncontrollable fear of spiders.
Her concentration when I became serious.
When she pretended she did not understand my jokes.

Listen to her changing plans.

What I remember?

The walks in the countryside on summer nights.
When she sat at the table to put on her stockings.
The breakfasts in bed on Sundays !!
The mechanical effort to start her Citroën in the mornings.
Our games in the hammock of the gallery.


What I miss?

That I liked to go shopping.
That she bought me my shirts.
Her absolute complicity.
How she shuddered me.


What makes me sad?

That he has not discovered the secrets of those valleys.
That he has not spoken until sunset with Cachimayo Cruz.
when I believe listening to someone laugh like her.

That she is no longer my witness.
That she has not been a mother

A wise man said:
what you give, you give it
what you do not give, you take it away.

In a closed fist only a little sand fits,
by an open hand
It passes all sand of the desert.

To give you must be willing to receive.

Maybe Autumn is the easiest time to see it.

That leaf ... that leaf ...  eternal ....... yes.

The hand goes down through the air,
crossing a non-existent silhouette,
memories of a body,
leave my gentle me cold.

Perfumes like daggers,
sublime aromas,
cutting the wind
in empty scrolls.

Soul that is,
that lives,
that waits,
this soul of mine.

See obstacles and not the magic,
sterile spell,
creeping path,
a false noise

My hands runs through the air,
cutting the winds,
dodging daggers,
caressing the perfume of magic.