Poetry saved me many times from the dangerous edges that I love to stand on, it saved me from blindness, from crying over the corpses of a dream. Trapped by nostalgia for the blue skies, obsessed with being lost, and delirious with death, my heart was like an open text to the seas. Death did not negate, it was only possible. Poetry saved me many times. Poetry bandaged my wounds. Instead of my pale smiles with a few stars, he was a good companion who never tired of listening. And when I returned from dream towns, I returned empty, without clouds, without secrets. Although the night remains, despite the loss of our homes, poetry teaches me forgiveness for those who insist on remaining in death. It embraces my disappointments and extends the trees. There is a truth that I know as I know a dream. Light is precipitating, and there are no vocabulary here.

Wing of the long nights, be my home and the book that is not printed, be in the cafes of lovers a tea session, and in the lips of the one I love: cracklings and trembling, be, O wing of the long nights, we protect, the pole has lost the star of guidance, but my distant family is still waiting for me.

A strange bird above my window I call him, Vedun. It rotates on my lap, and I touch it, and it becomes a stone in my hand, and a live coal is plucked from me, and its wing twitches.

My God: I can't find anyone to talk to except you tonight. You see my loneliness, the loneliness of a nest in a burning forest.

Everything is appropriate; create whatever you want - the present tense is past, and what was not was, and the unseen is sense, and turbulent like a cloud. It is love that reveals your sunshine in your protruding wrinkles.

All roads are barriers to our future. Prisoners overlooking an exile with waves that have no waves, fear transmitted by the mirror.

The silence in the house touches the infinite. I hear time fall, drop by drop. As fluid worlds cross me, I penetrate time through silence. Your silence is tired herds.

In the evening I turn off the lights I light two candles or my fingers. Sometimes wandering spirits flow from me. The streets are full of cats with many lives. And dogs that heal humans. What should we do in this night? Do we go around the city killing for fancy fun, setting the rotten city on fire? Mustiness fills the city, filthy streets, agony everywhere, skulls full of holes filled with lies and wind, genitals hanging here and there in musty spaces and rooms, nudity for quick masturbation, no one smells the putridness of death. Floods to clean the cities of the dead, without the sense of smell.

I do not want anything from the world, but the hole in my soul if someone does not put a rose in it; You will become a gun.

Happiness is to expose you to loss. What's the anniversary You are in someone's dream. What love? Do not hear or see. What is sadness? To remain alone and blind in love. The lover is the most silent. What is the sea? Dream. What's wrong? You have awakened a ship sinking into oblivion. Who is closest? The stranger.

I sit in front of the mirror, in an arduous exercise to remove the smell left by my lips on my neck, and although I do not need to document the sadness, I do not fail to count my tears that I dropped in the wastebasket, and I see my eyes more beautiful than my imaginings of them and I think that understanding is more beautiful than forgiveness and that I was with you on a journey to a holy place.

He was sitting on chairs that he imagined were what human forms ended up in, waiting for a long time in his memory.

It is another sleepless night, a battlefield that has become familiar, and where the desire for victory is no more and no less burning than the desire for defeat.

We, the defenseless villagers, when we find no room for the shepherds, look at the flute as a memory of the cane.

Every hand, every hand that hears in its palm, your eyes fall into mine. Every alabaster, every alabaster echoes my prayer to you.

I did not fear, while you were living in my bowels, that every remote vinegar would become away from me, for people are two, one whom I adore and the other whom I did not count among the living.

Adam, you are me and my blood runs in your wrists and in your weeds I let out my verbal serpent. To liberate or suffocate the sleeping firebird in a poem in which the world and the past boil.

I'm looking for a safe place for this confetti, a place that keeps the fractures of my soul for me.

The sound of growing grass woke me up. For the sake of vigilance, it is impossible to sleep early. When I am deaf, the dream kidnaps me. I reached the water following the mirage without feeling thirsty.

As if you love and are ashamed to say, or hate and are afraid to say; Like you're afraid. Or that what frightens you remains inside you, grows, becomes a mountain and you are too weak to bear it and too weak to say, that now you are like a man who carries a mountain inside and cannot move. He cannot raise an eye or a hand.

I try to go out on my own, and every time the only thing clinging to my coat pockets is the doorknob.