ENGLISH (POETRY)

(GIRL)FRIEND

I’m coming from always

my time is everywhere
I can talk to you whenever you want me to.
The fire of the logs is ready
The autumn whistles in the flavor of the wind
which patiently licks the gold of the afternoons.

There isn’t either any gold to buy us,
and the clepsydra does not urge us.

A minimal coffee or a circulating mate drink
reveals in the penumbra the light of ideas.
Ah the things the dead gods
and the music, the old music
that intoxicates the pure souls.

A visceral love is floating in the thin air
among the vertical fumes of the incense:

the love of the worn pages
of our sacred books
and perhaps one of our own.

The power of our chisel is fabulous:
You magician I alchemist the right formula.
They have come to visit us in anyway
Homer, Baudelaire, Borges, Neruda.

Ah your shelves ah your skin

unequivocal reward of my days.

ALL NIGHT LONG

I look at you
and I look at the sky
for both of you are mysterious and beautiful
There is a jewelry on every night
and in each word a beating heart.
I wouldn’t want to leave
because out of all this talk everything is useless
worldly and empty.
I have a silence to give you:
a small chaos of feelings and one hope.
I taste the cup of the new momentum
the new youth dissipates the shadows of the soul
Today I look like being reborn in your womb
or in your smile.
Come on,
the secrets planets are awaiting
we will surrender our hours to them

for the Order to exempt from oblivion
a probable and expected union of our bloods.

INNER SILENCE

Plic, plic, ideas fall like droplets
into my well.
Plic, plic. I am calm and fine.
Sometimes you make the sea roar

and other times you do not, other times
you're a sweet song in the shadow.

Woosh, woosh, the maples
oaks and pines
have cooperatively formed a carpet
of reddish leaves. They are my dreams
when I dream of you.
Woosh, woosh. I am calm.
Sometimes you’re the gale in the forest
and other times you do not, other times
you’re the dark clouds of my good days.

SNOW IN THE AFTERNOON

This thin white dust,

this cold smoke blowing from the roofs

it´s only dry boredom from the clouds

in the shape of snow.

So the whole city gets enclosed

within a narcotic TV or its sister PC

warming up near a plastic fireplace

chewing plastic food

drinking plastic drinks

creating again the illusion that everything is OK.

Anyway this weather is my climate, you know?

Nature sings with the silent flakes

and nobody is there to listen,

except for me, the lonely guy of the blue cap.

I watch the landscape of the frozen atmosphere

and feel obviously at home,

because the landscape itself

is one of the best parts of my soul.

Through some window I see a young woman reading a book

a real one, made in real paper, beside a real woodfire.

Perhaps she even knows how to use a pen.

She doesn´t look at me, but she thinks of her reading

watching three seconds of the snowfall.

The smells of winter (a chimney, the probable fragrance of her skin, a shared carpet),

portray the beauty of Life.

I like snow. It´s so patient.

It comes when it´s the right time,

whenever I need to remember my own self.

Nature dances among the quiet trees

and the passing, ever-changing unchanging clouds;

but nobody is there to buy a ticket for this show

except for her, reading a book.

(And me, the madman who talks to God).