Reclinado sobre el suelo
con lenta amarga agonía,
pensando en el triste día
que pronto amanecerá;
en silencio gime el reo
y el fatal momento espera
en que el sol por vez postrera
en su frente lucirá.
Un altar y un crucifijo
y la enlutada capilla,
lánguida vela amarilla
tiñe en su luz funeral,
y junto al mísero reo,
medio encubierto el semblante
se oye al fraile agonizante
en son confuso rezar.
El rostro levanta el triste
y alza los ojos al cielo,
tal vez eleva en su duelo
la súplica de piedad.
¡Una lágrima! ¿es acaso
de temor o de amargura?
¡Ay! a aumentar su tristura
vino un recuerdo quizá!!!
Es un joven, y la vida
llena de sueños de oro,
pasó ya, cuando aún el lloro
de la niñez no enjugó
el recuerdo es de la infancia,
¡y su madre que le llora,
para morir así ahora
con tanto amor le crió!
Y a par que sin esperanza
ve ya la muerte en acecho,
su corazón en su pecho
siente con fuerza latir;
al tiempo que mira al fraile
que en paz ya duerme a su lado,
y que, ya viejo y postrado
le habrá de sobrevivir.
¿Mas qué rumor a deshora
rompe el silencio? Resuena
una alegre cantilena
y una guitarra a la par,
y de gritos y botellas
que se chocan el sonido,
y el amoroso estallido
de los besos y el danzar.
Y también pronto en son triste
lúgubre voz sonará:
¡Para hacer bien por el alma
del que van a ajusticiar!
Y la voz de los borrachos,
y sus brindis, sus quimeras,
y el cantar de las rameras,
y el desorden bacanal
en la lúgubre capilla
penetran, y carcajadas,
cual de lejos arrojadas
de la mansión infemal.
Y también pronto en son triste
lúgubre voz sonará:
¡Para hacer bien por el alma
del que van a ajusticiar!
¡Maldición! al eco infausto,
el sentenciado maldijo
la madre que como a hijo
a sus pechos le crió;
y maldijo el mundo todo,
maldijo su suerte impía,
maldijo el aciago día
y la hora en que nació.
Serena la luna
alumbra en el cielo,
domina en el suelo
profunda quietud;
ni voces se escuchan,
ni ronco ladrido,
ni tierno quejido
de amante laúd.Madrid yace envuelto en sueño,
todo al silencio convida,
y el hombre duerme y no cuida
del hombre que va a espirar;
si tal vez piensa en mañana,
ni una vez piensa siquiera
en el mísero que espera
para morir, despertar:
que sin pena ni cuidado
los hombres oyen gritar:
¡Para hacer bien por el alma
del que van a ajusticiar!
¡Y el juez también en su lecho
duerme en paz! ¡y su dinero
el verdugo, placentero,
entre sueños cuenta ya!
tan sólo rompe el silencio
en la sangrienta plazuela
el hombre del mal que vela
un cadalso a levantar.
Loca y confusa la encendida mente,
sueños de angustia y fiebre y devaneo,
el alma envuelven del confuso reo,
que inclina al pecho la abatida frente.
Y en sueños
confunde
la muerte,
la vida:
recuerda
y olvida,
suspira,
respira
con hórrido afán.Y en un mundo de tinieblas
vaga y siente miedo y frío,
y en su horrible desvarío
palpa en su cuello el dogal:
y cuanto más forcejea,
cuanto más lucha y porfía,
tanto más en su agonía
aprieta el nudo fatal.
Y oye ruido, voces, gentes,
y aquella voz que dirá:
¡Para hacer bien por el alma
del que van a ajusticiar!
O ya libre se contempla,
y el aire puro respira,
y oye de amor que suspira
la mujer que a un tiempo amó,
bella y dulce cual solía,
tierna flor de primavera,
el amor de la pradera
que el abril galán mimó.
Y gozoso a verla vuela,
y alcanzarla intenta en vano,
que al tender la ansiosa mano
su esperanza a realizar,
su ilusión la desvanece
de repente el sueño impío,
y halla un cuerpo mudo y frío
y un cadalso en su lugar:
y oye a su lado en son triste
lúgubre voz resonar:
¡Para hacer bien por el alma
del que van a ajusticiar!

Klauss Ritkke collector leaves and representative of Beggars, with their 76 autumn and semi-dead body of downstroke of insect. I used to walk through its narrow streets serenades as liquid pearls, as clusters of dreams omnipotent ogres and fetishes; owners of old Avignon, iridescent moist soil marshes bringing minerals liquids Gotthard massif, ancient drains into the Rhone. Owner dreams and curses weak burst administrators of the house of God.

         August 4 in the year of our Lord 1617, when it was asset Klauss cleaning the largest stained glass, heard heated dialogues between Fraile and Gentleman, who was in another time assistant clergy? You could approach Klauss and listen more clearly their conversation, until the Friar Andrew, stammering, Raymond Bragasse demanded indulgence, or one or the other.

Fray Andrés : How many times hopefully I struggled to reform you ... Raymond!
  
'O virga ac diadema diabolus thirst ...!!
  'Oh ****** the Devil smiled ...!!

Raymond  : It is to live more question if I failed something, take me to the sulfurous emanations from Averno. But my faith lies mildewed on the seabed, sacred myth ... my truth, and my beloved Marielle ... Meanwhile,

Klauss envisaged to play the window and looked her tongue to pray for them. Fray Andrés, paced back and forth wondering what to do...?
Raymond  : There are fifteen thousand demons possessing my body ... fifteen thousand demons to attack the sacred mystery of the Holy Rosary ...!                

Fray andrés : Oh great cause ... How I have to ****** your soul whose darkness of flashed light ...!?

Raymond  : Marielle was my light, my Eve Edenic, admirable land. Now, it's my I spell, my blindness or my constant bleed sharp, not knowing where to elapse...?

         ...To a memory that night, that dismal night, giving up my final vows of faith and consecration of my soul. I broke my bonds and ecclesiastical chores all by Marielle noble descendant of the Quentinnais.

            Never believe such grief in my fate I do love her, but his misfortune was to meet me. That night when I went to the edge of her house, I walked through the kitchen window. Everyone was asleep, except the albi-blue reflection of the last gasps of the deadly round of Quentinnais Mansion. I thought rescue and salvage something from those cheeks kissed by me, but their heart wiping her heart and lungs.
     It is possible to recall the last roses I took her hands.   Danced with her, next to the old hymn and lamentation of prestidigitations made by the monk, played alongside cartomancy having abolished the minute of darkness take her with her beautiful bare feet. What a pain, I could not rescue her, and snatched me death! His parents hated the mere fact of having their priest ruled by a wicked heart, so I turned to the pagans and dark gods to heal Marielle, and his heart transplant it for mine.
              
Since that day, I'm still burning in hell polisatanic to take little breath of kindness and seize transparent liquid plaguing their existence and serene Diadem metal to learn that his friend possessed by the devil fall into any infection endemic evil ...; endemic of his love, crossed himself when he saw that turned into a horrible one.

Humble as leaves in the garden became the Bible leaves torn from the bound fillings. Saints lepers shriveled down her columns. Heaven proclaimed hemorrhages and wind festering stinking gases, which in the sky sprouted in clusters clots on the Papal Household.

          Fray Andrew threw the rosary on the neck of the possessed, and asked the Demons who feared more ...?. A question answered this question Demons, which fell shrieking vertical down the aisle ... and.... fell, rose!

              
       Klauss fell to the ground in horror, and the demons not to respond, fell into tears and regret shaped so plaintive and poignant, many dark beings holed up in fixtures and embankments, they began to mourn moved by natural compassion ... and saying pained voice by the mouth of the possessed...:

...Andrés, Andrew ... ... have mercy on us!
              
Meanwhile, Klauss ran away screaming the place ... could be heard in the distance ... Marielle ... have mercy on us!

         Sparkling lights fell on the dome, covered with orange and creamy luzbels horror. Apertures fulminations betrayed contained emancipate the shackled muses leaping vacuum; discouraging reddening chinks bad ..., saturating every form, every place, and every interlocutory benign breeze.
Most animals vomited on the walls; carbonated some ****** walls and curdling the soul of the people. Other remains of vomiting sulphurous radiated papal house, initialing the firing squad diabolical image of Raymond and Fray Andrés; they are swallowed by the Cancerbero. So flayed bats were issued by the campanile, mistaking the red sunset in penitence with blood dripping thick alleged by the Buttress and reach a churchyard to embryo.
            
Got home, tightly closed the latch, feeling strangely his wife Danianne; which saw his face isolation. Then he went to his bedroom and closed the curtains, warning yellow lights in progressive outlook towards a corner of the mirror. Then he lay down on the bed and prayed for himself and others ... "Today, when I walked by my office and my prayer my clothes pilgrim incense drove away my voice ... as if Fray Andrés, still whispering my ears..."

I close my eyes listening to litanies and prayers ...
         O ****** by virtue of your rosary, directs these enemies of mankind to respond to my question...!
                
Klauss saw the exorcism using the mirror. He made a prayer, came a radiant ears, nose and mouth of the possessed flame. Fire flowed like laba of the Holy Cross, which destroyed the wicked and the most worthy wisdom worked against the satanic specter fire and hot rosary fell on the hot heads Fraile and Raymond. It was what translated his shadow in her room.

         Klauss Rittke, returning the next day moistened his clothes by the dense fog that covered the sacred place, then when picking up     leaves plucked Bible found a Diadem with an initial contained a    backwards W, whose image pointed to Marielle triumphing evil. He   tried to leave but nothing left pulled, so refugee took the   diamond and warily Diadem led her pocket.                                                          ­                          

Little bit could do that dark and rainy day, as an insurrectionary devotion that day begged her angelic singing to heaven; that enveloped the sky in order to transport to the cemetery to sleep next to their parents.  Diadem virtue to useful lives and reigns in the footsteps passerby Baal runaway spirits. All with their malodorous footsteps, they vomited and flying in higher meridians, like the giddy exorcism in the house of the universal Shepherd.
           The same day, August 5, 1617, Klauss arrived tired with the diadem cast in her hand. Thus, ceased to exist and its long sleep would walk with his white robe and crown throw with his eyes came from the Sea blankets the oceanographic serpentuous within Marielle, whose hairnets they are containing its essence. His agony lasted three days, and around Avignon no who could wear mourning. His children and wife lost their voice to utter.

Go in peace Benedict Klauss...!

The Gentle Pads Of My Finger Tips Are Frigid,
The Skin Under The Lip Of My Shoe Is Raw And Worn,
From All The Cautious Steps I've Taken,
The Leafy Green Of My Tired Eyes Is Dulled,
From Hours Of The Presence Of Vision,
The Fraile Glass Windows Are Frosted Over,
Crystallized Molecules Whisper To The Half Moon,
My Heart In A REM State Of Mind,
From All Of It's Beatings,
And The Color Which I Portray Is Black,
Because It Is The Absortion Of The Artist's Pallette

Dont Try To Overthrow Me,
This Is My Territory,

Don't Try To Touch Me,
You Fraile,
Cold Hearted,
Tantrum Throwing Annoyance,
Don't Speak,
About The People Who Are Better Than You,
Dont Speak Lies,
Which Only Some Believe

Dont Try To Crush Me,
You Foul,
Demonic Child,
Don't Glare At Me,
I Have The Strongest Stare,
Don't Say You Want To **** Me,
You Would Never Succseed If You Try,
You Are Simply To Weak

Dont Try To Take Over Because,
You Are The Opposite Of The Human Spirit,
You Are The Flip Side Of Incredible,
Trying To Break Through The Wall,
I've Been Forced To Rebuild,
Over,
And Over,
I'm At Full Strength,
And Yet You Try To Break Me Down,
You Make Me Laugh

You're The Omega,
You Misquito,
Constantly Buzzing Around My Ear,
Telling Me What A ***** I Am,
And You Are An Angel?
You Are Demon
You Reddheaded Brat

Shut Your Mouth,
You Disease,
No One Wants You,
No One Wants To Taste The Hate You Hide,
No One Wants To See The Side I've Seen,
At One Time,
You Were Funny,
Bubbly,
Let Me Pop Those Bubbles,
Just Like You Popped Mine

I Am Indecent?
Because I'm Ugly?,
Only In You Crap Brown Eyes,
Tell It To My Face,
Not My Friends,
I'll Break Your Nose,
How Will You Feel Then?

You Are Nothing To Me,
A Waist Of Space,
I'm Tired Of Getting Pushed Around By You,
I Am Your Alpha,
I Have The Power To Hurt You,
Injure You Permanently,
But I Wont,
Just So You Know,
I'm Strong,
Physically,
Intellectually,
And You Are,
The Frost Who Wishes To **** My Rose,
But  Good Luck
The Climate,
Is Getting Warmer

«¿Hacia dónde?» dicen todos,
«Otra vez a España?»
                                -«Al centro,
A conquistar nuevas tierras,
Listo el brazo y firme el pecho.
Río arriba, que hay un río
Que vendrá desde muy lejos.
Habrá en sus orillas oro;
Riquezas habrá en su extremo.
Ese río es el camino,
Ante nosotros abierto,
Para la fortuna. ¡Vamos,
Los que no sepáis de miedo!»

«¿Miedo? Nadie lo conoce».
Todos a una dijeron.

Y en ir y venir constante
Es grande alborozo el puerto
De Santa Marta ese día
De Abril de mil y quinientos
Treinta y seis de nuestra Era.
El Licenciado en Derecho
Don Gonzalo de Jiménez
De Quesada, airoso, erecto,
En el casco blancas plumas
Que agita el marino viento;
Con la luciente coraza
Guarnecido el noble pecho,
Y el pendón de Carlos Quinto
En la diestra mano irguiendo,
Ve ante él desfilar su tropa:
Sus hombres son ochocientos;
Y ochenta y cinco jinetes,
Y aborígenes flecheros.

Fray Domingo de Las Casas,
En el aire mañanero
Alza la mano y bendice,
Pidiendo el favor del Cielo.

Todos inclinan la frente,
Y en fila siguen al puerto.
Las lonas y cabrestantes
Aprestan los marineros,
Y cabecean los barcos
En el mar, diáfano espejo.

En carabelas van unos
Y en bergantines ligeros;
Otros partirán por tierra:
Todos de ánimo resuelto.

-«¡Adiós!» -
«¡Adiós!»...
                                    Tras fatigas
Unos, contra el mar violento
Luchando, y sus bergantines
Por ciclones, rotos viendo;
Y los otros, que en el bosque
Van despejando sendero,
En Malambo, sobre el río,
Se unen al fin. Desaliento
Profundo embarga sus almas,
Y en airada voz dijeron:

-«¿Avanzar? ¡Es imposible!
Para el mar nos volveremos».

Don Gonzalo pensativo,
Ante ese gran desconsuelo,
Le dice al Padre Las Casas,
Ante el peligro, sereno:
«Como voz terrena falla,
Habladles con voz de cielo».

En el arenal del río
Que desciende amarillento
Sobre tabla que se apoya
En recién cortados leños,
Un crucifijo se yergue,
Un cáliz y un Evangelio;
Y terminada la misa
Entre alboroto del viento
Y entre el rumor de la selva,
Dice el fraile:

                      «Llegó el tiempo
De que a los reinos de Cristo
Unamos un nuevo reino»

Y se vio trocado en gozo
Entonces el desaliento


¡Río arriba!... Unos por agua,
Otros por tierra. Al estrépito
De las voces de «¡¡Adelante!!»
Se unió el rimbombo del trueno.
Fúlgidos rayos cruzaron
El espacio ceniciento.
Borrose el sol. De las fieras,
Por entre el follaje espeso,
Llegaban roncos rugidos;
Y torrencial aguacero
Cayó de pronto. La oril la
Fue entonces pantano inmenso.
Unos subían el río;
Otros, bajo árboles, quietos;
Y la tormenta seguía
Los árboles sacudiendo.
Eran torrentes los caños,
Y entre ese fragor siniestro
Sobre las carnes de todos
Caían nubes de insectos,
Arañas, negras avispas,
Jején y tábanos fieros,
Que en encendidas ampollas
Les convertían el cuerpo.

Amarrados a los troncos
Se columbraban muy lejos
Los barcos. Y los infantes
De los raudales huyendo,
Sobre horcones cavilaban,
Mirando inundado el suelo,
Cómo esa noche podrían
El cuerpo entregar al sueño.
Charco enorme era la tierra;
Seguía el río creciendo
Y en los gajos de los árboles
Eran los aventureros
De ese día -y que muy pronto
De un mundo serían dueños-
Pájaros que disputaban
A los pájaros sus lechos.

De vez en cuando caía,
Con rudo golpe, uno al suelo:
De los audaces «chimilas»
Bajo el venablo certero.

«¿Hacia donde?» -preguntaban,
Y Quesada, duro el ceño,
A caballo respondía:
«Río arriba, que esto es nuéstro»

Y el pendón de Carlos Quinto
Erguía entre el aguacero.

Cerca un tigre. De otro tigre
El rugir se oía lejos.

Un alto al fin. En «Barranca
Bermeja»... Entre el desaliento
Estalla el tumulto, y todos
Piden hacia el mar regreso.
-«¿Para qué bellos pasajes
En desamparo y enfermos?»
Así decían. Quesada
Sin vacilar en su empeño.

Por el Opón, dos canoas
Envía Quesada. El cielo
Es viva paleta. El ánimo
Volver parece a sus pechos.
Se alza la luna. Vihuelas
Y voces forman concento:
La primera serenata
Bajo centenarios cedros
A la orilla del gran río
Que desciende soñoliento,
Llevando en sus aguas, troncos
Vivos: los saurios; y muertos
Troncos, que arrancó en la playa
La corriente con estrépito.

En tanto, Quesada sueña;
Soñando está, mas despierto.
Piensa en rejas andaluzas
Y en algunos ojos negros;
Y como es poeta, entonces
Fulge en su memoria un verso,
-¿Quién un verso no recuerda
En sus noches de desvelo,
Un verso que muchas veces
Es lágrima de otro tiempo?-
Y evocando a Santillana
Ya su «Vaqueira», un ensueño
Radioso se alza en su mente,
Visión de gloria: otro reino
Para España, que en el mundo
Habrá de extender su imperio.
«España y amor», murmura,
Y a sus ojos baja el sueño.

Y regresan las canoas:
Traen sal y  traen lienzos;
Y todos alborazados,
Delante de un mundo nuevo
Surcan del Opón las aguas,
De la gloria aventureros;
Y a las serranías suben:
Sementeras, chozas, huertos,
Cielo distinto, otros campos,
Vegas  y valles y cerros,
En donde sopla en el día
Y en las noches aire fresco
Y después, la gran llanura
Que se abre a sus ojos, lejos:
Nuevo día. Bella aurora;
Azul y radiante el cielo,
Y entre silbido de flechas,
Al frente los macheteros.
Troncos iban derribando
Que tendían en deshechos
Raudales, cual recios puentes
De infantes y caballeros,
Mientras serpientes enormes
Entre el matorral espeso
Deslizábanse, y arteras
Dejaban mortal veneno
En las carnes de esos bravos
Postrados por hambre y sueño.
Unos caían. Los otros
Marchaban, camino abriendo
Entre trabas de bejucos
Y árboles corpulentos.

Para comida, raices,
Y hojas y barro, por lecho.
Saltaba un tigre de pronto
Entre la noche, uno menos.

Otro día. Azul y gualda
Y rojo. Horizonte espléndido.
Cada rama era una libre
Jaula a las aves del cielo.
Brilla la esperanza. Entonces
Temblando de fiebre, regios
Palacios, veían, oro
Y más oro entre sus sueños
De sobresalto en la selva;
Pero de repente el trueno
Retumbaba en el espacio
Y y volvía el desaliento...
Y luego... a buscar raíces,
Entre tupidos helechos ,
Donde arañas y serpientes
Acechaban en silencio

Tarde radiante del trópico...
Rojos celajes. En vuelo
Perezoso van las garzas
Por los dormidos esteros;
En la orilla esperan otras
A los peces, vivo argento
Las escamas, que en los picos
Un instante brillan luego,
En tanto que albas corolas
Mueve el aura sobre el cieno.
En la playa, centenares
De saurios se mueven lentos
Grandes bandadas de pájaros,
Azules, verdes y negros
Pasan ¡La tarde del trópico!
El sol es un rojo incendio...
«El valle de los alcázares»,
Como en un deslumbramiento.

Tan sólo ciento sesenta
Han llegado. Setecientos
Marcaron con sus cadáveres
El recorrido sendero.

Y aquellos desconocidos,
Terrones de gleba; aquellos
Que de humildes heredades
A heroica aventura fueron,
No pensaron quizá entonces,
De sólo harapos cubiertos,
Pordioseros de la gloria,
Mientras Quesada su acero
Alzaba en tierras del Zipa,
Que el suelo hollado por ellos
Iba, cual florón de España,
A ensanchar el universo.

Francisco encaminábase a Perusa
y así le hablaba al compañero:

                                              «Hermano
León, oveja del Señor: si el fraile
Más humilde, los nombres de los astros
Todos supiera; y la virtud oculta
Lograra descubrir, con don arcano,
De las piedras, los árboles y el agua;
y entendiera el idioma de los pájaros,
Lo que hablan los insectos y las fieras
y las greyes que pastan en los prados,
Sabe que en eso no hay completa dicha».

y prosiguió después:
                                      «Óyeme, Hermano
León, oveja del Señor: si el fraile
Más humilde, las lenguas que se hablaron
y se hablan en el mundo comprendiera;
Si la ciencia que guardan los Sagrados
Libros su mente atesorar lograra,
y pudiera leer lo que los Santos
y los ángeles piensan en el Cielo,
y pudiera leer todo lo arcano,
Sabe que en eso no hay completa dicha».

y prosiguió después:
                                      «Óyeme, Hermano
León, oveja del Señor: si el fraile
Más humilde, pudiera al solo tacto
De las manos curar a los leprosos;
y sanara a los cojos y los mancos,
y a los ciegos la vista les volviera;
y si, la Ley Divina predicando,
Ablandara los duros corazones
Que viven en la sombra del pecado,
y a los infieles convirtiera a Cristo,
Que a todos abre los amantes brazos,
Sabe que en eso no hay dicha completa».

y prosiguió después:
                                      «Óyeme, Hermano
León, oveja del Señor: si turba
Hostil surgiera y nos cerrara el paso
Cuando a Perusa entremos, y de pronto
Hiciera de nosotros vil escarnio;
Luego nos arrancara las capuchas,
A los sayales nos lanzara fango,
Y después, bajo piedras y garrotes
En el arroyo exánimes quedáramos,
Tan sólo en eso habrá completa dicha».

Así decía, y se detuvo el Santo
En mitad de la cumbre. Desde el Catria
El sol iluminaba el hondo espacio.
El rumor del torrente no se oía,
Ni de las aves en el bosque el canto.

Y para Fray León aquel silencio
Fue una pregunta en la quietud del campo;
y tranquilo y humilde, hacia el Maestro
Alzó los ojos y le dijo: «¡Vamos!»

Eager rushing sensations, waiting to escape, finding love and never finding the right words to say. Varied and wondering dreams, restless in all it’s waking threads of time. Rose gardens that house all kinds, like sunflowers for Van Gogh, humming amongst them. The mood helps providing a sense of freedom, though most never follow through. Maybe it’s only peace that I’ve always wanted. Something that isn’t found under a chestnut tree. Poetry a way beyond conversing with oneself, a self portrait for one’s eternal life, opened for viewing, it's something more than wanting street fame. Flashes of knowledge. As pearls. Self-doubt has become normal, something lingering around, it’s tiring in my engagement with it. Clouded mists, dripping over my essence, for I’m guilty for being anxious. Though there’s a-lot of men who stay heated, most of them stay bluffing underneath, hollering at the moon on the roof, passing any yearning for actual love. Because it’s something made out of lust. Now poetry spoils me, maybe it’s too much of a good thing, I’m alone in the world and it’s something I never wanted. For me, it always seems that I end up like this, a darkened world and I’m centered in it. For love, it was all bone and ashes, with poets skills, turned them into something so potent, forming beauty so we all forget about life’s natural wonders. A nightmare for the moment. Thoughts that are vivid, I’m not lost, I’m on a path that’s constructed for me. The only predestined item, in my own existence. Not reluctant. Even when you’re heading towards your fate, it’s still no obligated to provide you all that you ever craved, including the lips of a lover. It’s a sudden and unexpected shock. Sometimes laying a scent of bitterness inside. Yes, it can provide tears. Maybe I’m just impatient. Though in poetry, I take glimpse, into another’s world, another’s experience. I just don’t want to know about love. The experience of it, that's in experience love, far-more illuminating than any poem that anyone can read. It’s a certain grace, a different type of contentment, being in love, maybe a final place for personal progress to stop, rest and let go. Feeling safe in another’s arms. For if the same love is given back. Controlling the movement of the sun with each poem. Salmon sky, starlight, fireflies, providing a sense of romantic aroma, scented poems, kissing, eyes glitters in their flickering. Hands holding, insecurity fades and each lover forgets about them, fear forgotten to the point of it never existed. Love, not belonging to romance art. Violin for symphonies. Some infinities are bigger than others. Changing fates, change paths, I’m a paradox. Whenever I’m glanced at. I’m under no obligation to be the person others are. Like how life is to me. Not out spite. Not to taunt. Just be.The issue of self-awareness, giving me the knowledge to be my own person. Harping in the waltz. Solemn in my own thoughts. Private. Wanting to burst. But I render to myself on my path, dealing with daily struggles. Maybe I’m private in order to keep myself for the one I’m meant to be for. This is all just a prelude to my own enlightenment. This is only a note to a track record. Fire. I look back on times of that self-awareness, what a large lump of weary years. The wanting to live, the desire and dreams, than not having the ability to do so. Till I started the to notice the beauty of life, without knowing the beauty inside, I looked inside and saw a supplication, and produced my own courage, hollowness in others I could always understand, people's wanting to understand, to have friends, to talk, to be noticed, to be helped. To what I didn’t see, original lives, people all just fitting into conformity. Friends and family will believe always in your potential, nauseating in person duality. Always. Without fail. It’s a different story once you want to act on it. Nothing there is spontaneously. Oh frown on that life where it's easier to bleed, than it is to smile. Maybe nothing in life is predestined. And the search to have my own fate come to furitation is all any illusion, a trick to find myself. To create something holy here on earth. And it’s shocking to see how many people want you grounded. Though what do you do, when love turns to hate?For all I know, my own heart isn’t meant to be enclosed. But if you can’t create yourself, if you won’t rebel, stand up for yourself. In order to avoid scars. Beauty won’t belong to you. Not the beauty of the flesh. The kind of beauty that comes from inside.The soul is stronger than the flesh, rendering it more valuable. I’ve noticed the war between Angels and Demons.I could be all wrong. It could just be something of a self-made myth. The smart philosopher will know, the peace is known internally and the externally will never match. There’s few things more pleasurable than *** and revenge. It’s returning to a place of hardship, during success. And no one notices how much doubt affects our own lives. To apply within, to save myself from all those fears and insecurities. For I had meet someone, changing, shifting the patterns inside, I first felt illuminated for the first time. I smiled, encouraged me to stop reading, reading the lives of others, begin to live for myself. He held me hand, caused me to smile, asked me to talk, sat and listened, took an interest, asked for nothing more, than my time and presence, for what we did during that, that was up to me. Putting in time, was the only work required. Projecting ourselves beyond the mundane parts, going forth, passing poetry itself. It was like discovering Mozart’s music for the first time in humanity. We replaced the mocking chants of time’s minutes, moments or angst future to be now, with passion, love, heated exchanges of wanting to dive into one in another. And each lover can remember the first, the last and the only. It’s a brief life. To have it full of something else, like holiness. It’s another thing. Trust me, to be enticed, to be tempted, to be curious. If it’s for true love. Let it happen. It sparked the belief for me, that real love does not live in poetry, paintings, in novels or in some cosmic planet or parallel life. Our soulmates belong in our hands, to have them feel safe to be themselves. It’s funny, I had always wanted a man to come in, storming into my life, to save me. God cannot be everywhere. The most dangerous thinkers are the ones who act on love. For God made lovers, not to be everywhere, for I ended up saving my lover. Poetry only nature's the faith of love, because poems are food for love. But who has not truth in their heart, will not see the beauty of the other. To how I had lost him. It’s on account of the earthly problems. The ego is the ugliest part the human race. As for ignorance. It’s too bad no one can feel pain from it. It was love, at first sight, and everything turned into beauty. It littered this land. Staurating the poets of thoughts of grandeur. Free to be wild. Locked in the heart to be tamed and own, for me, shivering in my frame, providing aesthetic to reality. Burning the sky, dnce all crazy, eyes on fire, we got them in a trance and impending doom of death, drips and melts away. Pulling in dramatic tension towards us, melodramatic and meticulous in our love for one another, ourselves dripped and personally forgotten in the presence of the other. We had broken the fuse of life, it’s living spark, to any predestined wants of it, created our own, anywhere we went, turned to romantic pilgrimage, and finally for the first time, any flaws of life, any poverty, burden or burning want, left, as we shrugged our shoulders, smiling at one another. We have and are, fully absent of any muse that we had once, prior to meeting thee and used for earthly wants and values. Like Milton said, do not think about morals, for they the ability to think about themselves. And our souls, larger than Rome, stronger than any empire. This isn’t a result of dreams, we had lived in reality and said no-more. Because it didn’t watch the throne. What do you do when the willingness to live, turns into something of no more? We just replaced the reality of life and created our own. For the mind is in a place of its own, to what comes into fruition, tangible and touchable. I’ll wonder deeper. Awake and rise. For this isn’t to copy. Something to leave behind. Perhaps this adds charm, shade to the stillness parts of life, colour to the darkness. A feeling of perfection to anything that may of so seemingly born lifeless. And ever since I’ve been left alone, I’ve come to grips in solitude. Out of truth, until this day, I have no idea how to articulate true love, I tell myself, something so beautiful can’t be express in poetry. And if it isn’t true love. I don’t want to know. It’s allowing to continue to believe in love, remaining here under its spell and that we all have a soulmate here, waiting to be discovered. My heart will ache until I find thee. Yes, I’ve heard it’s dangerous to romanticize one’s own past, have it brew to the surface of old sensations, from the secret depths of my own soul, alluring our attention to it and placing a veil to the future, maybe why we romanticize the past, is a simple reminder that life isn’t so bad. Perhaps I’m just a foolish romantic, an expression-mirage of hope. As the thoughts of love, keep coming, I’ll continue to walk, if it’s in exile, alone, parting from everything that I had become accustomed to, let it be. But at least I don’t refuse the potential of life’s fruits and to what I can bear with my own hands.  When it’s in love, anyone can farewell to hope and fear, for the very last time. In heartbreak moments, its singing of torment and personal chaos, collapsing of my private world. To which I deemed valuable on any night meant for you and I to share love. **** and full of fashion. Of how much pain the heart can stand, imagine the experience of tightening strings to crack like glass to the point of no-return. Miserable in the infinity. Just to devour anything worthy of oneself. Huddling together with the darkness and whisper between ourselves. Than by force, burden humanity. And a good poem is the blood for any romantic, but it’s forgotten when love is currently being enjoyed. To the unbearable doubt, I’ll not fall victim to, poetic, I’m fraile inside, like we all are. They’ll be no heros if our inner-worlds weren’t such soft touches of complete tenderness. Mingling glories. Kiss me now. I’ll smile for you than. What is it mean that someone is clingy? Perhaps there is nothing for them. Maybe they had just saw for what I’m worth and saw nothing but beauty. For that, there is nothing else for them, besides to infuse romance. Just wanting to leave me breathless. Tenor for rose beds, shepherd to anything the world made of beautiful, touch it, it will multiple. The breath of life. Hollering at moon on the roof. For the reminds me, of what he thought of me, when he first saw me. But I always answer in response, ‘what about now’. Lowering his head, resting on his arm, hiding his smiling. To which reminds me, it’s always getting better. Like the revolving poems. In spontaneous overflow of something we can’t control. What is the paramount goal between lovers? To self discover? To know another? Be poetic in one’s actions? Oh musing poetry, how can we know how to love thee? How to live? How to write poetry for thee? Now I see the value of peering into the arts made from any romantic period. But what does it mean to pass those poems by? Losing all value of life. It's just passing moments, threading together, stuck to the forefront of my mind, I’m unable to forget. So I lose sense of time and daily obligation. Smoking magic. Spellbound. I’m fully alive and aware now. Constant. There is no change. I’m unable to forget. Though let me breathe in that breathe, an intoxicating perfume. Extravagance. Blunt in twilight. Pierce through obscurity. Temptation to praises. Holding lovers hand under sunlight and moonlight. Pitchy. Eyes convicted of seeing the endgame of beauty, never to look away. Containing fairy tales in dreams, the ability to stain the earth with it. Got to be carefully not to let the evil of this life and earth trap thy. And all I wanted to say to my lover, before I told him, that his voice is my favourite sound, is to say simple words like I love you. So when you see me, our dreams will flicker like the stars of the night, never to fade and when the sun rises, the golden dawn between us, will expand the sun’s glory. In clarity of mixed feelings, we had lived dormant and a calm temperament, contempt to achieve earthly success, to which our heart could never be satisfy with. Drowning in oceans of filling hearts by love, produced by one another. When you’re in love, the world is yours and it spins around. But when one’s heartbreaks, nothing but numbness and you’re alone. Late night, bright lights, lust and lies, everyone with their hands out, no one is giving, but I cannot blame people for trying to get what they can. Loving seeing your lovers smile. Anything goes under this shared sky, who knows what you’ll find. I’m just distilled in poetry. Needing one single kiss and I’ll open my arms, present myself so proudly. As for the naturally wonder, they’ll blink, display itself for everyone, jealous as we walk away. But when your heat breaks, everything is gone and nothing ever seems to matter, plucked into forever. And all wanted, nothing within poetry, is to love. Can one ever get blamed for that? It’s as natural as being born and to die. To my doubt, that no matter how I live, do not engage with me, on how I’m supposed to be. Cello symphonies, tenors. Can I survive a misspirit? Oh for what I’m I really waiting for? For when you open your heart, look how they try to play me, write a couple a poems, now they wave at me. I’ve had my heartbroken, to lovers smiles. From a romantic in desituition, to someone's love. Experience in musings. And to every step I take. Just want to tread over romance and transition into poetry. Smile for me now. From a trembling throb, shaking hands, strengthening of heart, it’s enough for me to know that I exist, not to be contained in any single moment. Do we really know life? I just want love. For poetry, I’m happy to hand out freely. To be beautiful, it’s when one glares at you, to be valued, is for when one knows you. For that, lover? Maybe? Otherwise, it’s not the purpose of existence to be either beatiful or valued for the outside. To which, I can easily do either. A free woman in this unfree world, would be a woman dreams never dared to speak to. A daughter of muses. Dreaming about the romance world. My mind goes boom! For me in the world of romance. To doubt should be a sin. Not to be brave enough to follow through, a sin. Refusing faith that we’re all meant to be for another as a soulmate. A unique miracle for another’s life. For a romantic, a day without love is like no salt on the road for the saint. Ever since adolescence, calling out for my soulmate, until he returns, it’s all eyes on me. I desire, so therefore, I exist in something of an aura, taking in this world’s pressure, without a sound, I slide, I’m unbreakable. It’s not that I can’t make it on my own. I’ve tasted love and earth or this life, cannot provide and other contentment, melting over in illumination. It’s incarnate and inherent. I’ve measured my own worth and dream of someone better. And if they’re less, better go to work to match my eyes. Stars on our door, stars in our eyes, stars exploding in the bits of our brains were the common sense should have been, where anticipation of love making sessions isn’t our greatest pleasures. Unstained by fulfillment for what we can do for each other. When I was younger, my hunger was to let loose in exile, catch me if you can, I giggle at those more vulnerable and impression years. Demand in the present, higher status in the future. Narration of poetry in soft whispers. So fairy tales, folk tales, stories from the oral tradition, are all of them the most vital connection we have with the imaginations of the ordinary men and women whose labor created our world. As for me. I created a love no other human can ever attain, so I’ve replaced every muse that had ever existed. No longer to question my own existence. The lover yet not conceptualize in my hands, is just another unexplored land of flesh and character. Waking each day, a little more, living, movements under the eyes, flicker of light. I gasp and breathe in. Somnolent gestures, it’s a little more urgent and intense, somethings different. More raw and upfront. I’ve loathed and now no more. Piano keys pressed. Heat rises, rains felt colder. Die another day. I huffed and puffed. I came to grips for the life I had live. Parted from it. Moving fingers to wave goodbye. I smiled. For love is funny. It’s comes out of nowhere, at the silliest times, from the most random people, like a fluke. Flutes and melody, along piano keys. Love, hitting me hard, never to leave. Asking in cliches, ‘where have you been my whole life?’ Finally, without effort, a man to understand, even from the smallest glimpses of glance, a single touch, a soft spoken word. Loving each other, not knowing how, but we do. In balance, obliges his self-care, never to allow me to struggle in my own wants of life. Understanding in instant flutters of fury and still yearning for more.  And each stroke of his tongue ripped off skin after successive skin, all the skins of a life in the world, and left behind a nascent patina of shining hairs. My earrings turned back to water and trickled down my shoulders; I shrugged the drops off my beautiful fur. I see him as a series of marvellous shapes formed at random in the kaleidoscope of desire. Filling out my meaning in his living action. To each look, it’s like the first time, in the last few moments, glancing at me, like it his final outlook on life. Our love, devoted to life, but we couldn’t accept life and it’s demands, so, we devoted ourselves, to one another, and it wasn't enough, so, we committed ourselves to holy love and rose above anything that had once been considered as limitations. Dripped off the sides, in alluring colours to the cosmos, left, in supernova fashions and drifted into mythological fame. As we should. Love hits hard, it hits fast and in unexpected times from the most unexpected people. Most of all, it was horrifying at first, made only for the brave, for those who have never tasted love. It’s like, seeing eternity, mastering it and got all the time in forever to stand and glare out to the immense sky. Careful in one’s manner, so no one will notice, eyes opened wide, never to shut, like if I have found creation more than I could explain. The sting of a poem. Why so often my thoughts flustered. Once went everywhere, unrecognised. Time slows. Instead of a mocking face. I regretted nothing in past loves. I am happy that I had an effort. Are the ones too concerned with these earthly concerns. I doubt would ever be themselves, let alone be in love. Don’t ****** me. Now it’s time to be a ghost. For the devil greatest magic, to have the faith that he doesn’t exist. Filtered through my demonic mouth, this is the end and I know how cultures die. This beautiful sigh. A firefly kingdom. Will it be like this, when I cross over to another place? Grief at lost love, when I’m capable of loving now. I’m the romantic, leaning against poetry, filled with love, whisper it’s tone with meaning. Wet summer in low times. Lover without love. Paralysed at my core. Those who glimpsed inside, know of senseless violence. Eyes that not dare no more to meet mine. Pendlum swinging, more selmn than the sfiting emotions. Do not come close to me. Deliberate gestures in the dark. Behaving like the gloom of failure. I know how the world ends. Artists, raise images as homage to death. Is it like this, on the other side, trembling with sobs. No prays to be heard. Valley of dead bodies, steaming ash, sizzling skin to bones. They never talk. Lifeless. Spasm in Zion. rapture over earth, screams from the religious, who pledged their lives to their dogma, slapped in the face. Shadows. Life is short. Between the desire and the action, I’m there, existing. I’m the essence of your desires. I’m breeding new kingdoms. Whimper in public, no-one will hear. For Zion has forgotten you. For I know how the world ends.  
(knowledge variable)

Snow Knee Deep,
Footprints Indent The Sheer Surface,
Hoarforst Coats The Trees,
Don't Run Away From,
My Poor Human Body,
The Fraile Mess That Runs After You,
Is Not The One I Wish To Be,
Don't Run Away From Me,
I'm Still One Of You

Consciousness Regained,
Wiping Watery Eyes With Blood Stained Palms,
Dreading These Long,
17 Hour Days,
Unplugged From The Material Plain,
All I Hear,
Is Their Voices Slamming,
Against Innocent Lockers,
All I Smell Is Poisoned Berry Perfume,
All I Say,
Is One Scream,
All I Can Feel,
Is My Book Slamming On The Ground,
All I See,
Is Blurry Brick Walls,
White As The Snow I Lost My Family Upon

All I Can Feel Are Peoples Arms Around Me,
Asking If I'm Okay,
No,
Incase You Are Wondering,
All I Can Tell Myself Is,
Stop Running Away

Don't Runaway From Me Again,
I Feel All Alone,
Don't Runaway From Me Lobo,
You Are The Only True Thing I Know

Cuando ya todos los héroes
Que con Hidalgo surgieron,
Quedaron frente al «Destino»,
Aprisionados o muertos,
Sólo un tenaz insurgente,
El indomable Guerrero,
Sostuvo entre las montañas
La libertad y el derecho.
Él, desde ochocientos once
Que entró a servir con Morelos,
Asistió a muchos combates
En que demostró su genio.
Y el año de diez y nueve
Fueron tantos sus esfuerzos,
Que alcanzó veinte victorias
Contra el virreinal ejército.
Más tarde cuando Iturbide
Salió para darle encuentro,
Siendo por él derrotado
Del sur en los campamentos,
Se le ofreció por amigo,
Se le entregó como adepto
Y al fin en una entrevista
Celebrada el diez de enero
Del ochocientos ventiuno
De Acatempam en el pueb'o,
Juráronse en un abrazo
Obrar de común acuerdo
Para proclamar muy pronto
La independencia de Méjico.
Guerrero fue como el águila
Altivo, incansable, fiero,
Halló nido en la montaña,
La caza le dio alimento,
Jamás lograron rendirlo
Y cuando en calma le vieron
Era porque ya la presa
Había en sus garras deshecho.
Tal era ei bravo insurgente
Que, por sus brillantes méritos,
Figuró luego en la Patria
Como Jefe del Gobierno;
Dejándonos por memoria,
Y por glorioso recuerdo
La victoria de Tampico
Conquistada en dos sangrientos
Combates, que aniquilaron
Al invasor extranjero.
Fueron Terán y Santa Anna
Quienes con gran ardimiento
Alcanzaron el triunfo
Contra un brigadier ibero
Que vencido y desarmado
Con su flota dejó el puerto.
Cuando ya sin ingerencia
En asuntos del Gobierno
Tranquilo en el sur vivía
El indomable Guerrero,
Por temor a su fiereza
Un crimen se tramó en Méjico.
El general Bustamante
Y sus ministros, creyeron
Oportuno darle muerte
Al soldado de Morelos;
Y hay quien diga que hubo alguno
Que así exclamó en el consejo:
A este suriano terrible
Hay que quitarle de en medio.
No era fácil darle alcance
Ni era posible vencerlo,
Y a un genovés, Picaluga,
Corazón infame y *****,
Como a Judas lo compraron
Para consumar el hecho.
Picaluga tenia surto
Un bergantín en el puerto
De Acapulco y era amigo
Del bravo adalid del pueblo;
Lo convidó una mañana
A principios de febrero
A almorzar en el Colombo,
El héroe asistió al almuerzo
Y en cuanto le tuvo a bordo,
Se dio a la vela ligero,
Y fue a entregarlo en Huatulco
A las fuerzas del Gobierno.
Por aquella negra infamia
Cobró cincuenta mil pesos;
Y nadie supo a qué sitio
Huyó el traidor marinero.
En tanto al héroe suriano,
A Oaxaca lo trajeron,
Lo juzgaron a su antojo
En ridículo consejo;
Mil crímenes le imputaron,
Mil faltas le supusieron,
Y ya sentenciado a muerte,
Lo fusilaron enfermo,
En la villa de Cuilapa
El catorce de febrero
Del año de treinta y uno...
¡Año en nuestra historia *****!!
Cuando en el Almirantazgo
De Génova, conocieron
La infamia de Picaluga,
Publicaron un decreto
Declarándolo ante el mundo
Traidor, villano y artero;
Sentenciándolo a que muera
Por la espalda, sin derecho
A sepultura sagrada,
Ni a luto ni a testamento
Breves pasaron los años
Y el más profundo misterio,
Veló a todos el destino
Del infame marinero.
Contábanse mil consejas
Que amedrentaban al pueblo,
Pero la verdad, lo triste,
Lo horripilante, lo cierto,
Era que el héroe de Tixtla,
El soldado de Morelos,
Gozaba en humilde tumba
Del último de los sueños
Causando duelo a la Patria
Y rubor a su Gobierno.
Cuando cayó Bustamante
Y que los años corrieron,
Uno de sus más adictos
Hombre rico y de provecho,
Hizo un viaje a Tierra Santa,
Pues era cristiano viejo.
Llegado a la Palestina
Fue a visitar el convento
En que moran los trapistas
Pensando ganar el cielo.
Al atravesar un claustro,
Dicen que salió a su encuentro
Un fraile, cuyo semblante
En amplia capucha envuelto
Velaba con blanca barba
Que le bajaba hasta el pecho.
-¿No me conocéis?- le dijo,
-No- respondióle el viajero.
-Pues llevo aquí algunos años
De rogar al Ser Supremo,
Que a Bustamante y sus hombres,
Y a mí, que fui su instrumento,
Nos perdone compasivo
Y nos absuelva en su reino
Del crimen que cometimos
Con el general Guerrero.
Soy Francisco Picaluga...
-iPicaluga!!
                    -Humilde siervo
De Dios, a quien lo devora
Un tenaz remordimiento.
Sin decir una palabra
Y de admiración suspenso,
El viajero conmovido
Salió del triste convento,
Y después de algunos años
Al referir el suceso
Temblaba cual si estuviera
Junto al traidor marinero.

Mother watching me with piercing  cold eyes, your dreams for me were nothing but lies.

Mother suffocating me with your so called love and expectations, my lungs are dying like cancer patients.

Mother who is ever so wise, I've lived my life for you in disguise.
Turning into what I hated, till my lies became too complicated.

Mother am flowed I will be the first to admit, but you are the real hypocrite.
What do you see when you look at me? am not the once fraile girl you knew me to be.

Mother who wastes my youth without care, there only so much a person can bare.
I hear you laughter in my head, it is a sound that I've come to dread.

Mother you gave me the precious gift of life, but all your words cut like a knife.
Why do you hate me? do I remind you of everything you wanted to be.

Mother who feeds on my anger and
Frustration, Like a hunger stricken nation.
Nothing I will ever do will be good enough for you, I feel it in my heart It must be true.

Mother I know you only do what you think is best, that's why you made my life a test  

Mother it seems our worlds are destined to crash, leaving behind nothing but ash.

Escrita en viejo dialecto eolio
hallé esta página dentro un infolío
y entre los libros de un monasterio
del venerable San Agustín.
Un fraile acaso puso el escolio
que allí se encuentra; dómine serio
de flacas manos y buen latín.
Hay sus lagunas.... Cuando los toros
de las campañas bajo los oros
que vierte el hijo de Hiperión,
pasan mugiendo, y en las eternas
rocas salvajes de las cavernas
esperezándose ruge el león;
cuando en las vírgenes y verdes parras
sus secas notas dan las cigarras,
y en los panales de Himeto deja
su rubia carga la leve abeja
que en bocas rojas chupa la miel,
junto a los mirtos, bajo los lauros,
en grupo lírico van los centauros
con la armonía de su tropel.Uno las patas rítmicas mueve,
otro alza el cuello con gallardía
como en hermoso bajorrelieve
que a golpes mágicos Scopas haría;
otro alza al aire las manos blancas
mientras le dora las finas ancas
con baño cálido la luz del sol;
y otro, saltando piedras y troncos,
va dando alegres sus gritos roncos
como el ruido de un caracol.Silencio. Señas hace ligero
el que en la tropa va delantero;
porque a un recodo de la campaña
llegan en donde Diana se baña.
Se oye el ruido de claras linfas
y la algazara que hacen las ninfas.
Risa de plata que el aire riega
hasta sus ávidos oídos llega;
golpes en la onda, palabras locas,
gritos joviales de frescas bocas,
y los ladridos de la traílla
que Diana tiene junto a la orilla
del fresco río, donde está ella
blanca y desnuda como una estrella.Tanta blancura, que al cisne injuria,
abre los ojos de la lujuria:
sobre las márgenes y rocas áridas
vuela el enjambre de las cantáridas
con su bruñido verde metálico,
siempre propicias al culto fálico.
Amplias caderas, pie fino y breve;
las dos colinas de rosa y nieve...
¡Cuadro soberbio de tentación!
¡Ay del cuitado que a ver se atreve
lo que fue espanto para Acteón!
Cabellos rubios, mejillas tiernas,
marmóreos cuellos, rosadas piernas,
gracias ocultas del lindo coro,
en el herido cristal sonoro;
seno en que hiciérase sagrada copa;
tal ve en silencio la ardiente tropa.
¿Quién adelanta su firme busto?
¿Quirón experto? ¿Folo robusto?
Es el más joven y es el más bello;
su piel es blanca, crespo el cabello,
los cascos finos, y en la mirada
brilla del sátiro la llamarada.
En un instante, veloz y listo,
a una tan bella como Kalisto,
ninfa que al alta diosa acompaña,
saca de la onda donde se baña:
la grupa vuelve, raudo galopa;
tal iba el toro raptor de Europa
con el orgullo de su conquista.¿A do va Diana? Viva la vista,
la planta alada, la cabellera
mojada y suelta; terrible, fiera,
corre del monte por la extensión;
ladran sus perros enfurecidos;
entre sus dedos humedecidos;
lleva una flecha para el ladrón.Ya a los centauros a ver alcanza
la cazadora; ya el dardo lanza,
y un grito se oye de hondo dolor:
la casta diva de la venganza
mató al raptor...La tropa rápida se esparce huyendo,
forman los cascos sonoro estruendo.
Llegan las ninfas. Lloran. ¿Qué ven?
En la carrera la cazadora
con su saeta castigadora
a la robada mató también.

Alone she sits in her chair
Watching the world pass her by
A cigarette at her mouth
A weariness in her eye
Her face lined and gaunt
Her body a small frame
Every line tells a story
But who is to blame
Her children never visit
No one seems to care
For this poor lonely woman
Sat alone in her chair
Her story unknown
Was she a wife
Did she get her knowledge
From its a hard knock life
Was she a beauty
Or a woman of the night
Did she lie down and die
Or put up a fight
No one seems bothered
They don't seem to care
For this poor lonely woman
Alone in her chair
It is such a pity
Would be a surprise
To learn that this woman
Is worldily wise
But she's simply forgotten
Now she's seen better day's
Social abandonment
Instead of pure praise
Her body now fraile
Greyness in her hair
This poor lonely lady
Alone in her chair

Come to me.
As I stand with bared soul
In this white abyss, I watch you.
A worthless diamond from weary pearl falls.
Regret, you cold hearted fiend.

I yearn to hear your soft whisper once again,
To feel your satin skin upon my fraile body.
Alas, it cannot be.
You cannot see me. I am but a memory,
Down in that cruel, far away universe.

Kiss me. How I yearn to feel your velvet lips
Upon my now ceramic face, one final time.
To gaze into those cobalt crystals
In which I have lost myself so many times before.
Yet, you cannot see me. I am invisible now.

Oh, cruel time. How I wish to repeat it all.
To feel a fluttering set of wings,
In what is now a mere uninhabited cage.
You cannot hear me. I have been cast away,
Into the vicious shadows of the unknown.

I'm sorry. The seductive whisper of the trigger
Was simply too much for my tarnished soul to resist.
It summoned, I listened.
Like a smouldering temptress, it ravaged my delicate mind.
...I have succumbed. ...I am free.

Come to me. I miss you...
Come to me. I need you.

𝑴𝒂𝒚𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒈𝒂 𝒃𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒚 𝒅𝒊𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒂 𝒎𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒐 𝒏𝒈 𝑫𝒊𝒚𝒐𝒔
𝒏𝒂 𝒕𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒅 𝒏𝒂 𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝒏𝒈 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒈𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒍
𝒏𝒂 𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒂𝒔 𝒏𝒊 𝑬𝒃𝒂 𝒎𝒖𝒍𝒂 𝒔𝒂 𝒑𝒖𝒏𝒐.
𝑴𝒈𝒂 𝒃𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒚 𝒏𝒂 𝒂𝒌𝒂𝒍𝒂 𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏 𝒂𝒚 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒂 𝒔𝒂 𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏,
𝒂𝒌𝒂𝒍𝒂 𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒚𝒂 𝒂𝒕 𝒏𝒂𝒌𝒂𝒃𝒖𝒃𝒖𝒕𝒊,
𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒕𝒐 𝒑𝒂𝒍𝒂 𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒅𝒂𝒅𝒂𝒍𝒂 𝒏𝒈 𝒖𝒏𝒐𝒔
𝒂𝒕 𝒏𝒈 𝒌𝒂𝒑𝒂𝒉𝒂𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒂𝒏 𝒔𝒂 𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏.
𝑴𝒈𝒂 𝒃𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒚 𝒏𝒂 𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒂 𝒃𝒂 𝒑𝒂𝒈𝒌𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒏𝒂𝒌𝒂𝒌𝒂𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒂,
𝒏𝒂 𝒂𝒌𝒂𝒍𝒂 𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏 𝒂𝒚 𝒊𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒂 𝒔𝒂 𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒆𝒔𝒂,
𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒕𝒐 𝒑𝒂𝒍𝒂 𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒂 𝒂𝒕𝒊'𝒚 𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒂𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒐𝒏
𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒊𝒚𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝒌𝒊𝒌𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒍 𝒔𝒂 𝒃𝒖𝒉𝒂𝒚 𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏.
𝑲𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒅 𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒂𝒔 𝒏𝒂 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒏𝒊 𝑬𝒃𝒂.
𝑲𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒅 𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒂𝒎𝒃𝒊𝒃𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒓𝒖𝒆𝒃𝒂.
𝑲𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒅 𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝒅𝒂𝒍𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒖𝒃𝒂𝒅.
𝑲𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒅 𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒂𝒈𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒂𝒔𝒂 𝒔𝒂 𝒎𝒂𝒚 𝒂𝒔𝒂𝒘𝒂.
𝑲𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒅 𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒂𝒈𝒉𝒂𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒂𝒅 𝒏𝒂 𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒍𝒊𝒃𝒓𝒆.
𝑲𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒅 𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒂𝒈-𝒊𝒃𝒊𝒈.
𝑴𝒈𝒂 𝒃𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒚 𝒏𝒂 𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒂 𝒃𝒂 𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒂𝒚𝒂𝒅, 𝒔𝒂𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒅𝒐, 𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒂𝒍,
𝒏𝒂 𝒂𝒌𝒂𝒍𝒂 𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏 𝒂𝒚 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒂𝒃𝒖𝒃𝒖𝒕𝒊 𝒔𝒂 𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏,
𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒕𝒐 𝒑𝒂𝒍𝒂 𝒂𝒚 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒃𝒐𝒏𝒈
𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒊𝒚𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒂𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒂𝒚 𝒔𝒂 𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏.
𝑲𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒅 𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒐𝒏 𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒍𝒆.
𝒂𝒕 𝒌𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒅 𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒂 𝒏𝒈 𝒄𝒖𝒓𝒂.

people get on
     and people get off.

young and old,
     fraile and bold.

i often wonder
     will my time come?

but a torn ticket
seems to say

     i'll be here
           another day.

Ya en los campos de Jaén,
amanece. Corre el tren
por sus brillantes rieles,
devorando matorrales,
alcaceles,
terraplenes, pedregales,
olivares, caseríos,
praderas y cardizales,
montes y valles sombríos.
Tras la turbia ventanilla,
pasa la devanadera
del campo de primavera.
La luz en el techo brilla
de mi vagón de tercera.
Entre nubarrones blancos,
oro y grana;
la niebla de la mañana
huyendo por los barrancos.
¡Este insomne sueño mío!
¡Este frío
de un amanecer en vela!...
Resonante,
jadeante,
marcha el tren. El campo vuela.
Enfrente de mí, un señor
sobre su manta dormido;
un fraile y un cazador
-el perro a sus pies tendido-.
Yo contemplo mi equipaje,
mi viejo saco de cuero;
y recuerdo otro viaje
hacia las tierras del Duero.
Otro viaje de ayer
por la tierra castellana
-¡pinos del amanecer
entre Almazán y Quintana!-
¡Y alegría
de un viajar en compañía!
¡Y la unión
que ha roto la muerte un día!
¡Mano fría
que aprietas mi corazón!
Tren, camina, silba, humea,
acarrea
tu ejército de vagones,
ajetrea
maletas y corazones.
Soledad,
sequedad.
Tan pobre me estoy quedando
que ya ni siquiera estoy
conmigo, ni sé si voy
conmigo a solas viajando.

Sí. Don Juan está triste, porque empieza a ser viejo.
Sus sienes ya blanquean y se arruga su frente…
Deliberadamente rompió su último espejo,
pero aún frunce con gracia el entrecejo,
y sabe, como nadie, decir lo que no siente.

Más aún que su espada de acero toledano,
tiene un filo temible su mirada insolente;
y una clara amatista resplandece en su mano,
con un episcopal fulgor mundano,
pero, como su dueño, ya se sabe que miente.

Sí. Don Juan está solo definitivamente:
Ningún beso lo espera; ningún labio lo nombra…
Pero sobre la alfombra su sombra está presente;
y entonces, con un gesto displicente,
Don Juan cruza los brazos… y le miente a su sombra:

«Realmente, yo fui un poco
aventurero: Me atraía el mar;
no fui insensible al juego, ni al buen vino tampoco,
y el amor fue un camino por el que supe andar.
Y, siendo un poco audaz y un poco loco,
un día, alegremente, me abandoné al azar.

»Y fui marino. Supe de las rachas sonoras
que en los tensos cordajes enredan una ronca sonata;
y en los ponientes de escarlata,
y en la azul placidez de las auroras,
vi palpitar los amplios velámenes de plata,
y me enjoyó de espuma la tajante inquietud de las proas.

»Y en las noches serenas, cuando el viento es un cálido encaje
que difunde fragancias de luceros,
comprendí por qué dicen que la muerte es un viaje,
y por qué se prolongan los adioses postreros
en los sordos hervores del oleaje
y en las canciones de los marineros.

»Pero en el mar airado o apacible,
y en la canción como en la imprecación,
con las manos crispadas en la jarcia flexible
o en la circunferencia del timón,
mi corazón, mi absurdo corazón,
permaneció impasible.

»Y fui guerrero. Y supe reír en la batalla,
con ímpetu invencible y entrecortado aliento,
cuando de súbito restalla
su látigo violento
la metralla,
sembrando de amapolas el elástico surco del viento.

»Y supe de la red que sabe a tierra,
del sol que raja el cráneo, de la lluvia tenaz,
de la fiebre en la jungla, de la asfixia en la sierra,
de la emboscada y del ataque audaz.
Y entonces comprendí por qué la guerra
tiene amargas raíces que alimentan la paz.

»Pero en el empujón irresistible
del asalto, al flamear el pabellón,
o al morder las palabras de una orden terrible
entre el hálito acre del cañón,
mi corazón, mi inútil corazón,
permaneció impasible.

»Y fui poeta. Hambriento de hermosura,
filtré vagos acordes en la alquimia sutil del poema;
cincelé cada estrofa como una miniatura,
y pulí cada verso cual si fuese una gema,
una gema inmortal de la diadema
de la belleza pura.

»En mis recreaciones de orífice sonoro,
dibujé en los misales, como un monje demente,
mayúsculas esbeltas con pájaros de oro;
y, al esculpir la Venus de una fuente,
con el sabio retoque de mi buril paciente
alisé cada grieta y cada poro
hasta dejar el mármol transparente.

»Pero al lograr un ritmo imperceptible,
o al apresar el tema de una alegre canción;
o cuando en una frase fue visible
un perfil impreciso de mi imaginación,
mi corazón, mi estéril corazón,
permaneció impasible.

»Después… ya no recuerdo. Fui pintor
y fui juglar, y músico, y fraile, y mercader;
espadachín, tahúr y trovador…
Y todo por amor a la mujer,
sin que nunca encontrara la mujer de mi amor.
Y después, todavía, como algo muy lejano,
recuerdo un brusco cambio de mi suerte:
Ya próximo al patíbulo villano,
la clemencia de un príncipe me salvó de la muerte,
y mis impertinencias me hicieron cortesano.

»Las mujeres pasaron, y, una a una,
dejaron solitarios mis festines,
pues fui dueño de todas y esclavo de ninguna;
y besé a una princesa bajo un claro de luna
que esparcía su polvo de plata en los jardines.

»Yo amé la boca sabia que extenúa el exceso
y fui de beso en beso tras la boca inexperta.
Pero no amé jamás. Amar no es eso.
El beso es una llave para abrir una puerta,
y yo cerré las puertas con la llave del beso;
y ahora no me ha quedado ninguna puerta abierta.

»Pero, tal vez aquella… La tapada
que vi en… ya no recuerdo. La dama iba deprisa,
y un rufián la insultó. Saqué mi espada…
Ella quedó indecisa…
Yo atravesé el rufián de una estocada,
y ella me sonrió, sin decir nada,
y huyó… Sólo vi de ella su sonrisa;
y después su sonrisa huyó en la brisa,
pero dejó la brisa perfumada!

»Aunque, de haber besado y poseído
la boca aquella que me sonreía,
hoy fuera en mis recuerdos una calle vacía,
o un contorno de niebla que flotara en mi olvido.

»Y ahora, ya se me va la juventud,
mi juventud, que fue por tierra y mar,
ebria de ensueño y loca de inquietud;
y ahora sólo recuerdo lo que quiero olvidar,
y, esclavo de mi propia esclavitud,
me siento solo y necesito amar.

»Amar por vez primera, para olvidar mi hastío;
soñar mi último sueño, y volver a empezar…
Pero en vano se exalta mi deseo tardío:
El leño que arde pronto, pronto se queda frío,
y yo ardí en cuerpo y alma, al vivir y al soñar.

»Y, sin embargo, a veces, el corazón insiste
en su antigua locura del beso y la mujer,
pero después del beso la boca queda triste,
triste como un camino en el atardecer.

»Sólo ansío la gloria de los días serenos.
Si pasan las mujeres, yo las miro pasar
como miran los niños los juguetes ajenos,
pero los niños sonríen con ganas de llorar.

»Sí. Yo vencí la vida, sin pensar de qué modo.
Me alcé soberbiamente, con gesto vencedor…
Y hoy me vence la vida, pues, teniéndolo todo,
sé que todo me falta si me falta el amor!»

Don Juan calla, y contempla, sobre la roja alfombra,
su sombra, que, sin duda, también cree que él miente.
-Ningún beso lo espera; ningun labio lo nombra... 1
Y, repentinamente, da la espalda a su sombra,
y una lágrima empaña su mirada insolente.

I'm in
A constant state
of discomfort;
of pain.
Sickness
in my heart
and in my brain.
But people call me strong
anyhow.
They see what I try to
somehow.
The fraile
     fragile
     falling apart
state of my heart
is invisible to them.
So slowly
        and eventually
I'm beginning to see it,
or I'm just starting to believe it.
The strength in me
that everyone sees,
is everything I'm trying to be.
So I can only assume
that in some way I'm succeeding.

Live now, live hard in passion, live now, as if
all eyes are on you to lead them, live as if forever exists
inside, let no mind be fraile and know fully-well,
death is around the corner, in all it’s conquering
glory, for death is definite. Live now, like if one
has destroyed both desire and anxiety. Live now,
as if you had discovered love. Live now, as if
your soulmate had just broke freely from the
mold of poetry and had demanded it from you.
Live now, as if your own fate is turn into a
burning Muse and in the transition into death,
your reward is be a martyr. For those are who
had lived when they had the chance.

Amado es la palabra que en querer se concreta;
Nervo es la vibración de los nervios del mal.
¡Bendita sea y pura la canción del poeta
que lanzó sin pensar su frase de cristal!...Fraile de los suspiros, celeste anacoreta,
que tienes en blancura l'azúcar y la sal,
muéstrame el lirio puro que sigues en la veta,
y hazme escuchar el eco de tu alma sideral.Generoso y sutil como una mariposa,
encuentra en mí la miel de lo que soy capaz,
y goza en mí la dulce fragancia de la rosa.No busques en mis gestos el alma de mi faz;
quiere lo que se aquieta, busca lo que reposa
y ten, como una joya, la perla de la Paz.

Un dominico pasa bajo la luz radiante
Del sol, negros los ojos y pálido el semblante;
Atmósfera de claustro circundarlo parece,
Pero en él una llama de juventud florece;
Sobre el labio, áureo vello, y en la austera mirada,
De todo lo terreno por siempre desligada.
Un resplandor extraño que fulge y que se aleja.

El fraile solitario sigue por la calleja,
En tanto que en los huertos cercanos, los rosales,
Movidos por el soplo de auras primaverales,
Van llenando el ambiente de aromas y rumores,
Porque estamos en Roma y en el mes de las flores.

El asceta, de súbito, siente un extraño asombro
y tiembla, cuando el viento deshójale en el hombro
Una rosa. Dirige después honda mirada.
Casi humana, a los pétalos de la flor deshojada.
Que al soplo de la brisa bajan con raudo giro
Por el hábito blanco; lanza luego un suspiro;
Enjúgase la frente con mano temblorosa.
y sacude hacia el suelo los pétalos de rosa.

midnights are for highways
for empty roads and fast cars
and no destination to think of but away.
chatter and backwards looks will only get you so far in the race you're running slow down take it all in and remember if you're still alive there's still something to live for.
midnights are for running away from your troubles with the aid of drugs or sleep
midnights are for encountering places in your mind so dark you'll wish you'd never met yourself
running with the devil through wet grass littered with shards of glass from broken promises and people
from squeezing so hard that everything cracked into one thousand pieces that shine like diamonds even in the dark
midnights are for hollow eyes staring back at you someone just as dazzled by all the black and burning as you are and getting lost in their tired gaze like they weren't just a stranger, they were an old friend
midnights are for hunting ghosts that try and take your sanity away skeletons in your closet whose bones won't settle down an empty casket waiting for the last of your head to fall into oblivion and get caught swirling in the wind.
cool to the touch and hot to the taste a boy and a girl a lullaby of saints and the symphonies of sinners all evaporate into the stars and become as divided as conflicting desires.
tension growing across a crowed room two pairs of eyes locked on two doors topped with exit signs she telling he let's get out of here with nothing more than blinks and stares a morse code designated for the fraile of heart only.
midnights are for chasing what you want while no one is looking, for writing poetry about your lips and songs about the way your tongue dances so effervescently stories about a kind of romance they all think is dead.
midnights are minutes and hours and seconds and more than just the time from twelve to one they come and go as often as you wish they wouldn't or would
they will eat you alive and spit you out and then brush your hair with the most delicate strokes of moonlight
they are the reason people keep staying up past their bedtime and why they are tired in their corporate hours because even in a perfect world nothing is right when a midnight goes wrong.

Decent I say.
Passing time down the line
Making sure you're all mine
You have this scent that makes me wanna die inside
Your world is upside down
Jumping around
making sure you don't pound your head into this sound
It seems to be awkward but very tempted
Your smile is nothing but a fraile flower waiting to bloom
You catch my eye and burn my skin
It makes me want to end
That's why I say
Your more then a dime
more then all is fine
decent I say.
Just like time

I could never fathom how he did
it;
shoulders broad, eyes bright and
warm, and a suitcase chained to
his arm.
For thirty odd years--
rain, drought and loveless
afternoons--
he did it. Every single day.
I never knew the weight of the
suitcase untill I was a man
myself.

He must be made out of rocks,
I thought, young.
Bone made out of iron,
Black opal eyes and skin as rough
and old as lump of coal.
Yet every night there emerged a
candy out of his pocket,
and filled my mouth with luxuries
we couldn't dream of.
There was a garden in this
coal-filled landscape, and for
years hence, I still savour those
candies borne out of them.

Today he is fraile and tiny,
the chain on his suitcase is
broken,
it's mine now.
Yet, whenever these chain grow
too heavy on me,
he soothes me with a promise:
that he would put on all the
chains in these world if it means
saving me from the world that
eats me every night.

The man with a smile,
Oh, how could he smile every
day?
How could he?
-Saurabh Kokane