"cinco" poems
on tall trees (en arboles altos)
they begin as small white flowers (empiezan como flores pequeñas y blancas)
with five petals (con cinco petalos)
and a sweet smell (y un olor dulce)
ready in summer (estan listos en el verano)
smooth skin (piel suave)
colorful skin (piel lleno de color)
red, orange, yellow, green (rojo, anaranjado, amarillo, verde)
single pit in the middle (una semilla en el medio)
sweet flavor (sabor dulce)
soft or firm (blando o firme)
the knife breaks the thin surface (el cuchillo rompe la superficie delgada)
and reveals a golden sun (y revela un sol dorado)
a sun (un sol)
bright (brillante)
shining (radiante)
and glorious (y glorioso)
i like mangos (me gusta mangos)
mango juice (jugo de mango)
mango smoothies (batidos de mangos)
mango ice cream (helado de mango)
i have a candle (tengo un cirio)
that smells like (que huele como)
mangos (mangos)
it’s one of my favorite smells (es uno de mis olores favoritos)
in the entire world (en todo el mundo)
when i think of (cuando yo pienso en)
mangos (mangos)
i think of (yo pienso en)
summer (el verano)
my happy place (mi lugar feliz)
my paradise (mi paraiso)
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
[Intro:]
'Sace, 'sace
'Knock one, 'knock one
Mustard on the beat, **
[Hook:]
Shirt, shirt by Versace
***** you better **** sumn
** Hoes wanna knock one
***** you better **** sumn
Shirt, shirt by Versace
***** you better **** sumn
** Hoes wanna knock one
***** you better **** sumn
[Verse 1: Kirko Bangz]
I just bought a shirt for tonight, **
And it cost five-hundred (Better **** sumn!)
I seen a bad ***** at the light, oh!
My car cost two-hundred (Better **** sumn!)
Uh, got 'Sace on the chain
Louis, that's my side ** Versace, that's my main
'Sace in the car so that's 'Sace in the lane
All day I dream about Versace on the linen
****** at work and now she bugging me. Versace John Lennon.
I only want the ***** if she expensive
**** the ** in Versace, had some boojie *** children
Doing what I’m suppose to do
I'm in Versace my ****** they in 'Sace too
Ain't no fun unless we all get some
If I'm ******* then my ****** they ******* too
[Hook:]
[Verse 2: French Montana]
Hundred-Thou' what I'm buying here?
Talking lion head ***** better **** sumn!)
Hundred-Thou' on these Cuban Links.
Medusa Face ***** better **** sumn!)
And my shirt eight-hundred
And just copped a honey ***** better **** sumn!)
These bottles they hundred
I just copped a hundred (Man, ***** better **** sumn!)
Got syrup by the liter. ***** Homie, Ima beat it
Catch the ***** like Jeter haa
Picture a ***** balling the ***** get to calling
******* get to fallin
Kamikaze. Shirt by Versace
Know my diamonds flash paparazzi
Give a **** about a hater
I be getting to the paper
**** ***** get your weight up haa
[Hook:]
[Verse 3: YG]
It's YG 400!
Shirt Versace, ******* is a hobby
I love a ***** that **** **** so sloppy
In high school she was a **
Hundred dollar bills on the floor
***** you better **** sumn!
And that's straight up
I prefer a bad ***** with no make-up
I got my cake up. Ya'll playas say sumn
I'm never paying for ***** and I'm never going bankrupt
My shirt's Versace. ***** red like Rudolph
Try to rob me I'll **** back that shooter
Trying to count how many ******* ***** I ate
Why you do that? Cuz I love how it taste. Ooo!
Me and Kirko on that purple
Geeked up like Urkel
Middle fingers in the air I don't trust you *******
Spent my money on me so I can **** you ******* Ooo!
[Hook:]
[Verse 4: G-Haze]
Got a shirt by Gianni
In your main ** that's where you can find me
Why these haters want to mean mug me
Cuz I'm coming down clean and they ******* wanna **** sumn
Trick you better **** sumn
Stepped in the party make a ***** wanna cuff sumn
Po-Po that's a No-No
Give me Ocho-Cinco!
Uhh, **** that ****** by Versace when I hit from the back
She gon' call me "Papi" while she sit up on my lap
Sip syrup lean and I got it from the trap
But I ain't a dope boy
Shirt by Versace got me feeling like a coke boy
Gold grillz, gold chain, LMG be the game
***** you better **** sumn!
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 1:25 PM UTC
Eternal flame burning bright for me,
A beacon of hope across life’s great sea,
A symbol of faith for wandering ways,
A guiding light for darker days.
The symbol of life that burns so quick,
That tall proud candle, with unspent wick,
My life it holds within its flame,
Either good or bad, it burns the same.
As life grows long, the candle grows short,
For a life lived carefree, or one of thought,
The candle cares not one jot,
It lives to burn, that is its lot.
Through time the candle grows so frail,
Just like myself, through time I’ll ail,
And just like I, oxygen gives it life,
To cope with all our daily strife.
Our time on earth, is fleeting, brief,
If time is tree, then I am leaf,
My faith proclaims life’s heaven sent,
But ends when my candles wick is spent.
All I ask from the life I live,
Is people appreciate all I give,
I care not for fame, nor even wealth,
Life is good if there is health.
I have the greatest gift of all,
I have my children, I love them all,
The gift I’ll leave hides in my words,
To me as melodic as the song of birds.
My candle of life continues to burn,
I have so much I've still to learn,
Until the day I give that final choke,
And my candle itself shows only smoke.
When time has passed, please don’t be sad,
Think of me with memories glad,
My candles flame, extinguished, gone,
Deep in your hearts, will still burn on.
© Cinco Espiritus Creation
2012
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 6:21 AM UTC
Compañera
usted sabe
puede contar
conmigo
no hasta dos
o hasta diez
sino contar
conmigo
si alguna vez
advierte
que la miro a los ojos
y una veta de amor
reconoce en los míos
no alerte sus fusiles
ni piense qué delirio
a pesar de la veta
o tal vez porque existe
usted puede contar
conmigo
si otras veces
me encuentra
huraño sin motivo
no piense qué flojera
igual puede contar
conmigo
pero hagamos un trato
yo quisiera contar
con usted
es tan lindo
saber que usted existe
uno se siente vivo
y cuando digo esto
quiero decir contar
aunque sea hasta dos
aunque sea hasta cinco
no ya para que acuda
presurosa en mi auxilio
sino para saber
a ciencia cierta
que usted sabe que puede
contar conmigo.
3.2k
Mas vueno pa enterrar
Contra perde
Mas vueno mira mi cuerpo abajo
Contra mira mi cuerpo perdido
Si, iyo ya cavar con el tierra,
Iyo ya entera complaciente
Iyo ya entera na mi cuerpo
Pero tu ya dale patada pa adrento
Ya basha tierra mas manada na suficiente
Ellos ya poner cinco grande piedra ariba
Seguro ya yo subir
Seguro hinde ya yo vivir
Hinde pa campante, ya pone pa colebra
Ya entra, yan camang, ya porsa
Yan junto comigo, ya besa
Ya bira na cabeza y pescuezo
No hay iyo luchar y defenderse
Hasta cuando kamo mata con el muerto?
Hasta cuando kam derramar sangre con el tierra mojado?
Hasta cuando yo muri?
Svelte Rogue, ACS
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 4:24 AM UTC
We are the calloused hands of agriculture
The sun burned neck of labor
The bruised heel of infrastructure
We are those who go without praise or applause
Who wake up early
And go to sleep late
So that our sons and daughters have food on their plates
We are hated for our pigment
We are hated for our accent
Pigeonholed as rapists and smugglers
But really, we do the **** pendejos would never do
And we do it with pride on our sleeves
And love in our hearts
Because sometimes our families are countries apart
We take jobs that are not glamorous
And let racists hammer us
And use that hammer to sustain our families
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 9:48 AM UTC
Es una lástima que no estés conmigo
cuando miro el reloj y son las cuatro
y acabo la planilla y pienso diez minutos
y estiro las piernas como todas las tardes
y hago así con los hombros para aflojar la espalda
y me doblo los dedos y les saco mentiras.
Es una lástima que no estés conmigo
cuando miro el reloj y son las cinco
y soy una manija que calcula intereses
o dos manos que saltan sobre cuarenta teclas
o un oído que escucha como ladra el teléfono
o un tipo que hace números y les saca verdades.
Es una lástima que no estés conmigo
cuando miro el reloj y son las seis.
Podrías acercarte de sorpresa
y decirme «¿Qué tal?» y quedaríamos
yo con la mancha roja de tus labios
tú con el tizne azul de mi carbónico.
2.2k
Clickety click, Clickety clack,
The train it rolls along the track.
The kids all get restless the parents all natter,
But at least they aren’t crying, so that doesn’t matter.
Clickety clack, Clickety click,
A child hollers out “mum I feel sick!”
“What did I tell you about eating those sweets?”
“Don’t make a mess all over these seats!”
Clickety click, Clickety clack,
The guard sitting bored, in his cab at the back.
We thunder through towns and all of its people,
Passing by churches, and that old pointed steeple.
Clickety clack, Clickety click,
A drinks cart on the train? Ah just the trick,
A nice cup of coffee and a cold can of beer,
“How much? You’re kidding!” I won’t get much change here!
Clickety click, Clickety clunk,
Oops, sounds like that rail's missing a chunk.
We cross over bridges, spanning their rivers,
I must close that window, it’s giving me shivers.
Clickety click, Clickety clack,
I’m getting hungry; I could use a good snack.
Back comes the hostess with her goods laden trolley,
No chance I’m parting with even more lolly.
Clickety clack, Clickety click,
So many destinations, which one should I pick?
Should I stay local, or should I go far?
It’s certainly more peaceful than driving a car.
Clickety click, Clickety clack,
It feels like we’re speeding along a fair whack.
The seconds to minutes, the minutes to hours,
From towns and their houses, to fields and their flowers.
Clickety clack, Clickety click,
Wherever I’m going, I’m getting there quick.
Bright eyed young faces, an adventure, exciting,
The doddery old folk, complain when alighting
Clickety click, Clickety clack,
We pass many crossings and a ***** old shack.
How many golf courses and quaint country pubs?
And weekend gardeners out pruning their shrubs.
Clickety clack, Clickety click,
These seats so uncomfy, now my neck's got a crick!
Now finally I've reached my long journey’s end,
And I'm glad that I've shared it with you my dear friend.
© Cinco Espiritus Creation
2012
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 7:00 PM UTC
Five. Cinco.
Half of the ten and a fifth of the twenty five. Mathematics are a funny subject, don't you think? Some man just made up letters to correlate with numbers to transcend to concepts that in all reality could mean nothing and the square root of a orangutan could actually be yellow.
I contemplate on that a lot, being the Grace that I am, wondering if what's real is real, if words are just words, or all they the pygmy hippopotamuses flying in my dreams. Anything is possible. Dreams could be reality, and reality could be a dream. Or maybe there is no such thing as realness, and everything is just madness.
I learned a lot from my friend the Mad Hatter, how to love, how to be disappointed, how to fall into a pit of despair and how to wear a hat like a ****** deviant and love it.
But the most important thing I learned is that sanity is very subjective, because what may seem totally sane to me, completely within the norm, may seem like complex incongruity to someone else. Maybe we're all mad. Maybe no one's mad. Maybe its just you, maybe its not you.
Special. That's another word that always got me, but I prefer to think in the realms that everyone is different. The world is in different shades and hues, none are ever quite the same, so why should people be that way?
But maybe yet again I'm only speaking in riddles and soliloquies and monologues and standing over all my conquests I am screaming my thoughts while they utter not a word, fearful of manic me.
I'd be afraid of manic me. She is quite the finger-twitching tyrant.
Words are words but are they real? Are they what you mean or are they just lies, lies, words that you scream until she dies, dies, and the world is at peace.
Oh, that's not right.
I once wrote a short poem similar to that I could recite by heart, but as my heart has changed the words become jumbled. Death creeps its way into lies, and heavy juxtaposition ***** with my meanings. Eating my words, until I am not a girl anymore, I am a leaf, or a bat, stuck in Wonderland until the end of my days.
Funny how Alice the savior became Alice the bat.
Wait, I'm not Alice, I'm Grace.
Oh, I do not know who I am anymore. And that is the tragic beauty of Wonderland. You just never know what, or who, tomorrow may bring.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 4:57 PM UTC
*Gentle child sleeping in my chair,
Stay sweet your dreams, free from care,
Rest your head from weary day,
Exhaustion borne from adventurous play.
Gentle child with breath so soft,
Into deep slumber, you have been lost,
Knowing nothing of years to come,
A dreamy smile, you're rarely glum.
Gentle child resting free,
Cast adrift on your dream filled sea,
I wonder what thoughts fill your head,
Tho' I know your imagination is well fed.
Gentle child I hear you snore,
A man as child, yet only four,
You stir from slumber, look of surprise,
Confusion and beauty I see in your eyes.
Gentle child drifts back to sleep,
Your dreams they call you from the deep,
An uncomplicated life, youthful simpleness,
The greatest time, the age of innocence.
Cinco Espiritus Creation
October 2017
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 12:42 PM UTC
*We're all familiar with Dr Seuss,
Tho pronounced like voice, and not like Zeus,
One fish, two fish, the cat in the hat,
With fish exclaiming that mother "won't like that".
Eccentric strange names, bizzarely named towns,
Unusual creatures, his imagination abounds,
There's mean Mr Grinch, where evil's his art,
And poor Herbie Hart, taking his Thromdimbulator apart.
We remember most fondly Horton hearing a who,
And the cat in the hat releasing Thing One and Thing Two,
How lucky you are, with dear Mr Potter,
And his monotonous job as T-Crosser, I-Dotter.
The things that we saw on Mulberry Street,
With so many stories, and people to meet,
Not forgetting the Lorax, or the places you'll go,
Or me singing high with my Ying that sings low.
I read them each night with my dear gentle Ben,
Stories we enjoy, both time and again,
The stories we read, are always his choice,
From the magical worlds of the one Dr Seuss.*
Cinco Espiritus Creation
2017
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 5:04 AM UTC
Tuas parcas impressões não me comovem
Irrito-me a cada interrupção gentil que tu fazes e
Devoro a mim mesmo em lúgubre fome,
A lamentar o que de bom poderia ter feito
Se e se
Mas
Às três da tarde
Apodreço numa cadeira áspera
Quase tão fétido quanto a fruta do vômito
Passada do ponto de colheita
Às cinco da tarde
Eu já sou molho estragado
Setenta por cento aglomerado literal de leucócitos degenerados
Pus integral
Ao cair do sol,
Sou um alface hidropônico
Pronto para ser vendido, lavado e comido por ti
Interruptor imbecil.
Voltar-me-ei ao mar
Ao esgoto
Num estado de paz surda
A solidão é um inspirar sufocado
Sufoca
Oxida as ideias
É tortura comodamente induzida
Se hoje fervilho, é sorte
Pura boa-aventurança;
Pois do profundo cócito
Fui e voltei
E cá estou
Inteiro
Longe dos dentes de Deus.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 5:16 AM UTC
*Tilting at butterfly windmills
in Parisian blown breezes
As gazelles seductively sway
to the melting light of night
Feeling her nocturnal whispers
puppy's secrets in child's ear
While white petals gently escape
eternal maternal bouquets
Pondering morphed realities
from verdant citrus cocoons
Long after jazz laden teardrops
muddled cinco de mayo*
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 6:47 PM UTC
hypnotising
mesmerising
demonising
terrorising
television is devising
ways and means for
lobotomising
globalising
mesmerising
summarising
victimising
mass media is advising
ways and means for
supervising
ostracising
privatising
eulogising
brutalising
government is advising
ways and means for
destabilising
© Cinco Espiritus Creation
2016
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 6:13 PM UTC
*Bubbles, bubbles in a bath,
Splashing child, melodic laugh,
Fishy, fishy with sploshing tail,
Brings a giggle without fail.
Water, water everywhere,
Brings a tear when poured on hair,
Soapy, soapy on the belly,
Leaving infant with fruity smelly.
"Me out, me out" it's time to go,
Watery footprints on the floor,
Squashy, squashy, towelling dry,
A clean little monkey, with gleam in eye.*
© Cinco Espiritus Creation
2016
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 5:45 AM UTC
Thomas, Edward, Percy, James,
There is a point, not random names,
Scarlet, Kevin, Stuart, Bob,
I've not gone insane, become a ****
Manny, Diego, Granny, Sid,
I've not gone hypo like some kid,
Twelve random names that mean great fun,
When watching telly with my son!
© Cinco Espiritus Creation
2016
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC
*I like the dark, I like the cold,
Away from life that makes me old,
To stop and ponder what should be,
And escape the life that's crippling me.
I like to sit out in the rain,
The splosh of droplets, relieve the strain,
This crash of water, the growing puddles,
Oft clear my mind, and all it's muddles.
To sit and feel the pelt of hail,
That crisp, sharp sting and blast of gale,
The swirling wind, no sounds of man,
Here I can work out who I am.
I want some time from behind the mask,
I do not think that's much to ask?
I like to get away from it all,
For chance to be the real Paul.
Working out which path to follow,
To stop me feeling empty, hollow,
Where to go, to do what next?
This age old problem leaves me vexed!
From within my soul I feel its growl,
It's evil, demented, cavernous howl,
It's mere presence chills to the bone,
This demon follows, wherever I roam.
Controlling thoughts, fuelling fears,
Crippling ambition, driving tears,
My plans to go forward, it brings to a halt,
As everything in life, is always my fault.
My future remains lost in the haze,
Living with this darkness for all my days,
All that remains, is my epilogue,
I'm living with the big black dog!*
© Cinco Espiritus Creation
2016
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
sa takipsilim na
tawag nating
alas cinco ng gabi
na makikilala ng araw
ang lupa,
nabibighani sa kanyang sikat at ganda
lalamunin hanggat sa
dumilim
masasaksihan natin
ang tunay na kulay,
tunay na simoy,
tunay na buhay,
ng lungkot.
hindi niya maisasagot
ang limangput libong
hukbong-sandatahan
ng dakilang, gutom,
mabagsik
na mga isip.
yakap ng mahigpit
at mahabang braso
ng lungkot;
mapaparalitiko
habang buhay,
sa takipsilim
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 5:18 AM UTC
¿Cómo puedo amar algo que no es mío?
¿El frío no hace temblar los huesos?
¿Si amor es lo que pides?
¿No pueden los árboles respirar?
¿El amor a primera vista termina?
¿Dios no ama al mundo?
¿Qué no eres para mí?
¿El sol no sale después de las cinco?
¿No te gusta oír mi voz antes de dormir?
¿Hay una entrada al cielo, no?
¿Tú sientes mi alma sobre ti?
¿Las rosas no tienen espinas?
¿Es mejor ver el amor venir?
¿El amor, no ve mucho más de la distancia?
Jun 17, 2025
Jun 17, 2025 at 4:35 PM UTC
LAS MANOS
Ellas son las que saben
las que conocen el tamaño de la vida
las que palpan el origen y la tierra
las que conocen la textura de la verdad
Ellas jamas miran de lejos
la bondad del mundo
Sopesan la ternura
como quien da forma al sueño
abiertas mecen las fatigas
Moldean la esperanza y hacen los días
desde la mañana a la noche
Cerradas guardan la rabia
o como animales heridos se doblan
y golpean derrotadas, y salvajes
adoran la piel de los besos
se posan como si todas las aves
y adoran el pan el vaso los alimentos
que ellas tallan, anónimas
renuncian al alboroto de los ojos
y siempre echan una mano
a veces matan y golpean y cuentan
con los dedos para las perdidas
los adioses escavados por ellas
en la tierra o en el aire si regresan
Son furtivas y se adelantan a la lengua
en las incursiones húmedas
en las tupidas oquedades del deseo
y retozan con sus cinco sentidos
cuando alcanzan las charquitas y sus vocales
jamas olvidan el camino que las lleva
a las fuentes de tu nilo escondido
Este poema los escribo sin manos
y soy funambulista por un momento
para que descansen leyendo este poema
y disfruten de su sagrado insomnio.
Y vosotros no olvidéis que como dioses
tenemos la vida en nuestras manos.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 6:31 PM UTC
Por la alta noche, por la vida entera,
de lágrima a papel, de ropa en ropa,
anduve en estos días abrumados.
Fui el fugitivo de la policía:
y en la hora de cristal, en la espesura
de estrellas solitarias,
crucé ciudades, bosques,
chacarerías, puertos,
de la puerta de un ser humano a otro,
de la mano de un ser a otro ser, a otro ser,
Grave es la noche, pero el hombre
ha dispuesto sus signos fraternales,
y a ciegas por caminos y por sombras
llegué a la puerta iluminada, al pequeño
punto de estrella que era mío,
al fragmento de pan que en el bosque los lobos
no habían devorado.
Una vez, a una casa, en la campiña,
llegué de noche, a nadie
antes de aquella noche había visto,
ni adivinado aquellas existencias.
Cuanto hacían, sus horas
eran nuevas en mi conocimiento.
Entré, eran cinco de familia:
todos como en la noche de un incendio
se habían levantado.
Estreché una
y otra mano, vi un rostro y otro rostro,
que nada me decían: eran puertas
que antes no vi en la calle,
ojos que no conocían mi rostro,
y en la alta noche, apenas
recibido, me tendí al cansancio,
a dormir la congoja de mi patria.
Mientras venía el sueño,
el eco innumerable de la tierra
con sus roncos ladridos y sus hebras
de soledad, continuaba la noche,
y yo pensaba: «Dónde estoy? Quiénes
son? Por qué me guardan hoy?
Por qué ellos, que hasta hoy no me vieron,
abren sus puertas y defienden mi canto?».
Y nadie respondía
sino un rumor de noche deshojada,
un tejido de grillos construyéndose:
la noche entera apenas
parecía temblar en el follaje.
Tierra nocturna, a mi ventana
llegabas con tus labios,
para que yo durmiera dulcemente
como cayendo sobre miles de hojas,
de estación a estación, de nido a nido,
de rama en rama, hasta quedar de pronto
dormido como un muerto en tus raíces.
1.4k
De sombra, sol y muerte, volandera
grana zumbando, el ruedo gira herido
por un clarín de sangre azul torera.
Abanicos de aplausos, en bandadas,
descienden, giradores, del tendido,
la ronda a coronar de los espadas.
Se hace añicos el aire, y violento,
un mar por media luna gris mandado
prende fuego a un farol que apaga el viento.
¡Buen caballito de los toros, vuela,
sin más jinete de oro y plata, al prado
de tu gloria de azúcar y canela!
Cinco picas al monte, y cinco olas
sus lomos empinados convirtiendo
en verbena de sangre y banderolas.
Carrusel de claveles y mantillas
de luna macarena y sol, bebiendo,
de naranja y limón, las banderillas.
Blonda negra, partida por dos bandas,
de amor injerto en oro la cintura,
presidenta del cielo y las barandas,
rosa en el palco de la muerte aún viva,
libre y por fuera sanguinaria y dura,
pero de corza el corazón, cautiva.
Brindis, cristiana mora, a ti, volando,
cuervo mudo y sin ojos, la montera
del áureo espada que en el sol lidiando
y en la sombra, vendido, de puntillas,
da su junco a la media luna fiera,
y a la muerte su gracia, de rodillas.
Veloz, rayo de plata en campo de oro
nacido de la arena y suspendido,
por un estambre, de la gloria, al toro,
mar sangriento de picas coronado,
en Dolorosa grana convertido,
centrar el ruedo manda, traspasado.
Feria de cascabel y percalina,
muerta la media luna gladiadora,
de limón y naranja, remolina
de la muerte, girando, y los toreros,
bajo una alegoría voladora
de palmas, abanicos y sombreros.
1.4k
El reloj es tranquilo, metódico, incluso cuando corre mi mano fuera de control, empujando palabras que se escapan de la ***** de mis cinco dedos de lápiz.
El poema se levanta en el este y se pone en el oeste, los conspiradores están de acuerdo.
La carrera debe seguir este curso.
<•>
The clock is calm, methodical, even as it races my out-of-control hand, pushing words leaking from the lead within my five pencil fingers.
The poem rises in the East and sets in the West, the conspirators agree.
The race must follow this course.
12:34am
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 12:35 AM UTC
El reloj va sonando, marcando un tempo de viejo afligido, como si estuviera desesperado por dictar una hora, o un día.
El perro se para a observar el "Tic tac" y su cola baila los danzones que el viejo reloj marca.
La comida hierve con delicadeza y el humo de la olla silba las baladas que el tocadiscos canta, el reloj marca y la cola del perro baila.
En la mesa se destapa el elixir que llena copas y embriaga almas cubriendo cuerpos como los ríos cubren al mar, y el mar inspira al escriba que roba suspiros que mueven manecillas de relojes para marcar tiempos y bailar colas de perros, hervir ollas que silban canciones y hacer luz que hacen cantar tocadiscos.
Entonces el reloj se detiene porque ya es Jueves y son las cinco de la tarde
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 10:58 PM UTC