An endless avenue
Between heaven and earth
Populated by small passions
Of even smaller beings
Polished by the rain
Doubly empty
Because of your absence
And my loneliness

the mist tangles between my feet
the sea speaks to me crashing against the cliffs
the church bells call for a mass for the dead


winter is my kingdom
the rain silver arrows
and the snow an imperial mantle


I make no effort to exist
I just try to be a faint shadow
in this valley of tears
it is immoral to take the air from another person


let us sit on the edge of the abyss
and let the seduction of emptiness trap us
to make it worthwhile to live another day

The seagulls squawk over the cliffs
The waves end like white foam at their feet
The sea is an iridescent mantle shimmering under the setting sun
Bronco, unfathomable and in perpetual motion
I contemplate it from my dimly lit room
In the distance a boat is blurred with the mist
Slowly smoking a cigarette I feel the sea talking, roaring, singing
sometimes it scares and sometimes it lulls
A melody that is lost in the beginning of time
The leaden sky announces a fine drizzle
I'll go for a walk on the beach
And the rain and the drops of the sea
Will placate this infinite sadness that sometimes assaults me
And then I'll go back to finish writing a poem

This instant
no other
neither before nor after
this instant
when you are and you stop being
water running through fingers
precisely at this moment
when life passes before your eyes
like a paper boat
getting lost on the horizon
so that
we are all made of instants
ungraspable
fleeting and irredeemable

In the heights of the Andes
The old shamans or Altomisayoq do not use the I ching
They read the coca leaves
spiritual oracle to access the future
consider that plant
a cosmic seed
fruit of the maximum goddess,
mother earth (Pachamama).
Descending from that holy goddess
They consider that she has the power to cure all ills
And know the destiny of a person.
On a colorful mantle
they throw them to the wind
and they invoke the sacred spirits in Quechua.
Practice as old as reading tea leaves
its origin is lost in the origins of time

Take a knife and cut the hollow shaft
Of a white feather
A few more deft cuts
And he has his calligrapher's pen.
In front of him, in an old leather case
More goose and swan feathers
He will begin to write on a calfskin parchment.
For the next four years the Holy Book
The illustrations will be illuminated
With gold, silver, copper and platinum
A masterpiece that will survive
Many centuries after the monk has departed.

In a secret place of an old castle
As the sun goes down
An old man descends and walks through intricate passages
Until he reaches his favorite place: the laboratory
He lights with some difficulty an iron lamp
In the background burns a stone oven
The room is spacious with several oak tables
Filled with tubes, retorts, flasks and old parchments.
Several objects on the table are made of bone
He ponders as he contemplates a bubbling cauldron.
He repeats silently "the stone is the beginning of everything".
With great effort he has managed to decipher secret codes
"Add to the eagle the dragon of ice"
"The man of fire must be fed with a snow swan"
A lifetime of trying to make gold out of a stone
Yet another night immersed in this secret world
While the old kettle seems about to explode
Outside the dawn begins to break