Poetry books in english – ® ©



ANTHOLOGY [26 Poetry books]

[All books are duly registered and are protected by law]

Book titles

1 – First Chronicles

2 – Open and close life

3 – Testimony and celebration

4 – Love, darkness and fury

5 – A fissure in the chest

6 – Intimate exiles

7 – Crucible of Worlds

8 – Cry for dark Spain


9 – Yosel

10 – Of water and fire

11 – Phenicia [for more love]

12 – Epic and lyrical pain

13 – Book of Ahab

14 – Verses of imperfections

15 – Architectures

16 – Companion light

17 – All is way

18 – Freedom: minor songs

19 – Book of the Spirit

20 – Men’s Treaties

21 – The Law and the Sword

22 – All fires

23 – Book of Synopsis

24 – XXI century: of fire, light and war

25 – Solar Book

26 – Book of Cosmic Interactions



1 – Landscape

2 – Yesterday

3 – Prayer for a friend

4 – I’ve lost her

5 – God

6 – Something different

7 – Who could

8 – Analogy

9 – The fight

10- Night for a friend

11- To God for a woman

12 – Time without time

13 – My love is not born

14 – It was this afternoon


… it’s cold,

and, in the immense field,

the stems tremble,

the flowers tremble;

… there is a fight

and the soul vibrates here;

… silence reigns in the room,

and, in the air, a shame.


… I know that yesterday he passed naked;

i know yesterday

passed like the days

What am I running from?

passed, leaving between my life,

a corner

skeptical and dark.


… Let me suffer the reproach of anger,

instruct solitude, summon stones,

look for crosses my knees

and eat the last crust from the tables;

… my eyes stay between thorns and roughness

and my soul in an abyss after tragic defeat,

if with it in peace I left you, following your path,

oh my faithful companion,

oh friend.


[… that I have lost it? – I wondered and wondered]

… I found out suddenly and suddenly I was absorbed by the void, and my soul in darkness,

– spinning tormented on the chest of her death –

he has burned and looted it along with the iron that harasses and destroys it;

… and here I am, hunted and crazy, and conscious and lucid, trying to avoid the effigy

of his image and I can not;

love was pure, and now, for his sore / rust,

– wounding and dislodging –

with purity it drops shards like the edges of daggers and knives;

… I breathe it in, I come and go, I think and dream of it, I name it and I call it,

I call her, call her and call her again and she faintly appears and floats,

step on the threshold of the soul

and she goes;

… It is very late, and in the distance, incessantly, trains and more trains pass by;

and although it is summer and the night is a huge flame with its thousand swarms of balsa tree essences,

here is pure winter, it is terrible, and it is the end;

… I have lost it, I have lost it.


… there are cruel days,

dark days,

days when man fights

and is defeated


… there are sad days,

bitter days,

days when the soul is silent

fearful of another havoc;

… and I dont know,

I don’t know why these days exist

why do they come and go

leaving ruthless

trace of its passage;

… I dont know;

are lived with contempt,

nostalgic perhaps;

… oh, oh those days

that leave something in us.


… Today I am hurting and I don’t know what hurts me;

in my body I cannot find the wound that offends me;

it’s a distant pain

but I know it’s very close

because I feel your heartbeat

monotonous and sharp,

sarcastic and hurtful;

I look for it with my fingers and I’m not right,

do not know where;

… I bring my hands to the end

around the forehead and then, thinking, I say:

no, this pain is not pain, it is inhuman,

this is something different.


… who could write

just a few words

and say something with them:

that they were spearhead,

that they were the edge of the sword,

that they arrived, I don’t know where,

to the depths of the soul …

… who, who could!


… I hear the gray sound of life:

It is the sadness that sets its stamp on my lonely soul;

… everything turns to dust,

in a dust of ideas, those of the man who breaks

so absorbed in his defeat that even love, even honor surrenders

and kneels in the gloom;

… the boat of this man adrift is a huge mystery

and your arrival time uncertain;

the harbors alone, the anchors lifted,

and life squeezing from chest to back;

…I know, I know:

there are daggers that do not shed blood;

… I’m singing the desperate song of Spain

to end by saying:

«No, they are not yet the saddest and hardest verses of my life»


… I will collect the stones that are falling

in my land;

I will take them and sow them

in my deserted soul;

… I will find the confines

from the world of war,

and a flower, in white and gold,

will announce my borders.


… friend,

I wanted to dress the tears of days with light and I wanted to give them to you,

– my only bastion of flesh made joy –

and it has become ash, dust,

land that vanishes;

… Oh, oh if I could lift the moss from your face;

… But sleep;

that there are no more village houses or orchards, or stubble,

no bonfires in the meadow or ju

neither bonfires in the meadow nor games in the square,

not even that blonde girl … do you remember?

friend, there is nothing;

you have taken it all;

keep, keep and keep the look eternal;

… today,

those paths between brambles are snake paths

that bite the feet of the traveler;

… and now, alone and here, pounding on the asphalt,

the city looks like a graveyard of huge pantheons

with streets of silence;

… friend, I’m almost with you;

little by little I’m taking the air with which I breath

and even sometimes I think that in my flesh there is no life

but the rubbing of the bones;

… I grope at night, chasing its mystery;

I stay with you, friend, and right here, on my chest,

we will talk and talk.


… give me your soul,

give me your body without a soul,

give me the woman,

give it to me;

… leave me in her hatred and lust

and in her eyes a tear;

… leave me, leave me some woman

do not look for man

the claw of life,

the only meaning:

the moistened earth;

… without the woman there is nothing,

perhaps, a lie;

… I am looking for the one to sweep my paths

and carry my crops in my hands;

with her I will found my dynasty of water and fire, of fire and water in me,

give it to me, give it to me


… I had her like a myth between my hands and my chest

and still did not understand the great brilliance of her spirit;

I wasted her tears and laughter, her hope, her song and triumph,

her little youth,.

your entire being;

… I was unaware of the emptiness of her absence,.

and, as it arose, the tiny city became naked, brutal and enormous,

to feel it beat through memory like the perennial and fine sting of a sweet and slight butterfly;

… what horrible loneliness, after the only oasis of memory and the drastic illusion of her return,.

for everything, everything is unfinished and broken, everything, everything is lost without it;

and when I look at the world it is not the world,

And then, dressed as a man, I am the worm that crawls, hesitant,

looking for the terrible din of an extreme silence, frantic and dark;

… that, that I am,

the one who hides her love under a dry and hard grin,.

He who desperately longs to drink and drink the echoes that come to him, press him and kill him:

the radiance of his image,

the light of his presence

his voice, his sun,

its rain.


… my love is not born to see

your deep bare breasts,

the moon reflected on your thighs of infinite length,

your lips parted,

your hair made wind;

… I am not tempted by anxiety

of the man who breaks

nor the tragic feast of crumbs of bread;

… my love rests on the timeless breath with which I live you:

a kiss, a tear.


… cold roses,

today the afternoon has died nailed to a cowardly sky;

and it has taken everything, everything:

happiness, love, man;

… today is death behind the mist

and I cannot tear him from his mother-of-pearl flesh,.

no, I can’t touch her, I can’t;

… I carry blood on the palms of my hands

at the touch of my supplication;

and I hear moaning: «… I’m sorry, I’m sorry»;

the beats of my body say it like broken wood,

like wild power, like salt thrown to the wind;

and I have lived it alone,

drifting after the dead, wanting to grab her

more here and beyond thought;

… today I learned it by breaking the torch

of my days in a rumor of bones,

in slow gear,

in a dry kiss;

… cold roses,

how vast and harsh winter is.

= = =



1- Open life

2 – Our kisses will no longer die

3 – Goldfinches by the river

4 – To live

5 – Amnesia

6 – My traveling love

7 – Wish

8 – Defeat

9 – Personal criticism of a day

10 – Inconcrete Poem

11 – Along the pier

12 – Trip to Andalusia

13 – My people

14 – Losses


… when I opened my life two birds died,

night soon fell,

and a chill left in the orchard

more beautiful the hyacinths;

… in the living garden I discovered death,

and two children cried

when drinking


the water from its wells;

… the well of the moon was dry,

and the bottom of my garden and the bottom of the shadows,

the bottom, the bottom, the bottom of my life;

… only the hyacinths were still beautiful,

only the afternoon,

just two pigeons lying on the ground.


… no,

our kisses will no longer die;

… Of the burned afternoons

nothing remained but smelling ash, more than smelling poverty,

and, among all the anguish, I remember your lips, love,

because our lips were still good for something;

… was

when day to day

we were trembling full of heroism and sadness,

because our kisses were what they did not want to take:

the pain;

[… we kissed painfully in front of our Spain]

… We kissed, love, to live;

… love, love, for something to live.


… the sound of the water wakes us up

When the doe in heat is the morning on the burning strut

of the poplars;

… Dance and boil your hair like ripe wheat

and the wind rushes into it, burns and blows away;

… Goldfinches chirp and forces of the sun cover your chest

of olive grove and purple, and also of love, and of my lark, of soul;

… Spain is on a pilgrimage and I, meanwhile, with my Iberian and Celtiberian zeal,

here, on the shore, wild animal owner of the enclosure,

river territory;

and what sigh is yours and what song is mine




he saw





in our essential body;

… Spain has trembled, and the world, your skin and being have trembled!

… and again goldfinches chirp down the river]


… I observe you as a god to whom he agreed until his pure stay,

and what a burning sunset, my heart in flight,

could join the sublime greenery

of your eyes;

[… Yes, to live the exquisite calm of the night

I’m calling you;

… I do it when everything dies and is born,

I call you now, my beloved, mine and companion,

to make bigger the whisper that keeps and names you in my blood,

to set fire to life and know that you are essential and true like the sun on earth]

… no power can deny you because I feel you singing between laughter,

beating the wind like a drum of light and party;

… In you I grow and I destroy myself, I am amazed, I spill and I paralyze the blood;

ah, I hear you and it is you, I belong to life;

[… And yet your hatred and my hatred, revenge and anger, the lion and the oryx]

oh love, oh love, why not contemplate the sign with which it is sometimes displayed

just the joy;

why not love, why not, why not …


… come, beloved, to hold the pain

Before the pleiades, furious, leave us blind and waste time,

without hours or memory;

touch my chest and we are silent until the eyes and the blood

again discover us;

… we have desperately loved life

and the little things that make the air more expensive

for loving them;

… the human and the divine,

Will they die here,

after this momentary apoplexy?

because isn’t it worthy to carry the sun off in your hands

and feel cold, and sorrow,

and a feeling of not knowing how to turn it on?

… Open chest my crying with your crying is natural;

[our tender violets, oh love, have just been attacked in the meadow]

… come, come my beloved,

and let’s stay without country for a while, without crosses or flags.


… My love blooms on this express train in the evening;

my love and your image between snow and sun, alive,

up the hills;

and deaf and slowly our eyes beyond the glass,

beyond the light, and beyond the dry being and hard slant of the night;

… And what to offer the city that awaits

if it is not desolation to the clearing they are that I bring of wheat and memory!

… you were like this at seven o’clock, exactly at seven o’clock in the afternoon:

my faith, my spirit, my strength;

… At ten o’clock at night I can’t discover you, I can’t see you, I can’t reach you;

At twelve I name you, I name you only and I can only exhale: I love you, I love you …


… the fire

and the silver

kiss her rings

in this ceremony


… The candles are burned, and the soul,

and never, no one, will come out to retrieve them

because passion is great and blood ignorance is great,

and tinsel is not abundant when only the flesh and the breath officiate

and again the sand, or the river,

and an irremediable wall in the middle of life;

… Birds of fire feed on desire

and again the earth is cracked and heated;

[… And again the wineskins will run out of wine,


one more to be

and never die, never



… today I embrace your slaughtered love,

your love cut open, your love of cane,

dismembered by my legion of murderous sickles;

… today I contemplate you pure and full, dead and alive,

overflowing with triumphs in this end of my tragic defeat;

because you have defeated me with the humble plunder of your conquered love,

broken, under this gigantic tear of mourning;

… I hug you and hug your lying love,

and about the last kiss, with a withered taste,

I shed this inheritance of tears and roses.


… anger plays fists and knives

and God walks resigned in the corners;

the goldfinches sing in this spring and appear dead,

nailed to the thorn of the thorn bush;

The plain laborer is surprised, the skinny cow lowers, the calf kneels,

the clean morning is cut and sold, and the afternoon,

and the children’s sleep with their nights;

… I put a handful of beliefs in my hand and they have eaten them

the selfishness of Europe, the oil of Arabia and the capital of America;

… And maybe this happens because I am an indolent afternoon goldfinch still singing;

Should I perhaps certify my life and give it direction

or maybe be a street and a town and shut up and shut up

among the trembling of frightened flowers?

… ah, only, only the life forces intuit how much the sediment and the instants of this time and hour can,

only, only them and only thus, rigidly and exclusively.


… poetry is living fire, all fires,

and my heart in freedom looking for them

like a bird excited to climb,

touch and snatch


… There is a need for wings and forgetfulness,

to be a bird and sing for a single day,

only one,



.. he was coming

from the sea, me from the office;

he bet me on Marx,

I bet on Christ;

… And we talk about fishing,

of La Bolsa,

the price of bread and tobacco;

[… And with zeal we silence the beauty

that nothing will march in our midst]

… and while the seagulls turned and searched high

the shelter

of the sun,

We both whistled different songs along the pier;

… it was yesterday with my friend,

my friend forever and ever.


… to the country of the sun and olive trees

I went to look for the light of the workers;

… July fell without wheat fields and the sun without mercy

making thirst and large estates bigger;

and there, under my feet, without clock or calendar,

the country of mourning and patience moaned boiling at one in the afternoon;

by the burning esplanade: a rumor of empire eaten by ants,

and a memory, and a red-hot story,

and my heart also burning;

… dream that there is God and men and laws with justice

and not sour breads;

dream that there are democracies and republics higher and lower in the world,

is to believe that there, in the vestal country of the sun, among hazelnuts and olive trees

death was never there;

[… On the wheels of the taxi I was drinking the southern light;

feast of love was that journey, deep and hoarse,

in the driver’s voice]

… Mate, didn’t you go looking for the light…?

Tell me, what did you bring, mate?

«… a taste of enormous sadness,

some black papers and the sip, cold and salty, of a strike ”.


… everything flew with brilliance and thirst over my soul

and I looked to see

the humblest things:

the light, the table, the walls, the elemental bread,

and there they were;

… with modesty I picked up my body

for so much goodbye,

and a taste, to want to live,

gave mercy and love to my existence.


[Spain: Dictatorship 1936 – 1975]

… The bells ring;

there is no shouting in the village and it is not a party

neither has anyone nor anything arrived, as always;

ring in my heart, ring on the stone;

… no one will be executed today, no one,

it is no longer necessary, just ring;

I hear them as a dubbing that, now,

it seems to me to have never ceased,

… since when ?

… my people hear them on three dates a year,

and they return to the struggle as with vague memories

of talks from other times;

… my people no longer suffer,

and they till fields to see the sun set red with anger

or red at the cost of their blood;

… my people hardly go to mass, they hardly meet, they hardly sing,

my people look at each other in silence;

… My people, when they ask, they say:

“… Hey, sir, can we remember the names of the dead?

= = =



1 – War in the Living Night

2 – Celebrate life

3 – Live now

4 – Then leave me anywhere

5 – Bad life

6 – The gift of joy

7 – Living Raider

8 – In the sand

9 – Dad

10 – Summer night in the Metro

11 – Father and mother

12 – Civil Decree

13 – Dubbing for an Innocent People

14 – Old commuter train

15 – General Elegy for a Lost Generation

16 – The complaint

17 – For García Lorca

18 – Point Exegesis

19 – Neighborhood

20 – Ay madrecica

21 – I’ll be back


[previous and special tribute to Federico García Lorca]

… to the rhythm of the bugles, where the afternoon is divine,

the dogs of hatred climb the soul over its thresholds;

… Wicker, red, rose and lace sunsets,

they carry life burning towards a peak of blood;

… in the bed of the night, held by a thousand daggers,

the moon plays the dead without names or funerals;

[… The dogs bark that they bark, the anger asks that they bark,

udder of death is the sand, the cries are nobody’s,

the vile scythe of the wind snaps through the air;

clamors of cold tongues, drunk with rage and hunger,

they run through the avenues of the heart after killing him]

… Father of full veins, Mother of the loving moon,

the son who is in the war is the son of two Titans

who tempered his golden sword with a diamond light!

… Panting dogs descend through the ravines of heaven;

the dawn, like a virgin, perches in the holm oaks;

Wax blackbirds in my soul light it up even if I’m silent.


… for once, for just one

– so that the gall does not jump into our eyes –

let’s come talk unceremoniously,

let’s squander our feelings without rancor

and that they make us see that the truth

it is not ours alone;

… without trick and without amendment let’s sit down

and let’s ice

in the air

the blood and the word,

for later – with faith and harmless, free now –

get to shine and celebrate life.


… beautiful, beautiful is the time

when the truth comes to me

And I can touch it

because my being is transformed and remains so naked

that, for seconds,

the world accompanies him

with a small shudder of surprise;

… there are no regrets

nor backgrounds:

the purest suburb light above,

the idea that welcomes me,

the joy that I spill …

… The night and the day no longer matter.


… take my heart, my eyes,

take my throat and blood with you when the gift of life

no longer hold;

get the humus out of my body

and pour it out into the world,

give it,

donate it,

I authorize you

in the name of life to continue living

eave me too, if you want,



cremated …

after all,

leave me anywhere for all men

and deaths that inhabit the streets, in the houses,

in all the corners where hope is a useless rite;

… For you, love,

that you are in me like a light

that reaches everything, redeems and shakes today;

[… Actually, just, I just ask for silence]


… You have to live badly to know how to live and what to live;

… here, we all die based on taboos and beliefs,

of small wounds in mass and kneaded where it bleeds

the grudge routine of the day;

here, here man lives, here he squanders and passes without love

because it was not seen or recognized, or no opportunity was given

of being happy or unhappy [where and how will he be born again,

where, where and how …]

… here there are only beings to buy or sell, or die,

just ants, and flu, and cancer, and accidents;

… no, I don’t know why the earth is beautiful,

the man,

and life;

but I do intuit, companions, why we look at each other

sometimes in such deep and tragic silence;

… Because that, that is our tragic suspicion, and yes, and also, our hope.


… if I could release every day


and feel a deep and clear peace,

the clarity of the spirit;

… if I could open my body with my nails

and bathe him

on the sun;

… if I could buy hope for something, if I could live;

… if I could, I would still have time as a friend

and go to battle,

die happy,

and march and march while the last bugle

– by the roar of the soul –

announces being the gift of joy.


… I want

A way of living

before being lived;

… my mind is underdeveloped,

and the light of my people,

and the last Council,

and the wheat field lost after one night

without dawn;

… my travels through the streets are silenced

in the walls;

each grabs a talisman and hangs it on his lapel,

when it would be necessary to take out the heart and make it roll

on the tables;

… because, to be lived like this,

is to turn off the light,

die and dishonor life,

kill faith for its own and for strange;

… Being a servant and a livelihood of something seems clear to me,

although we can barely enervate for a while this long,

this immense, current and miserable history and pandemic of ours.


… and suddenly I wake up in the sand,

that of all seas, that of all men;

and I do it clean, pure,

like a polished edge deposited on the shore;

… and stood up

I go to meet the sun and the sun

it hits me on the forehead;

I wonder then who my parents are,

where is the love and what am I doing here,

without him on earth;

… and it is that so many, so many nights accumulates the soul,

that it is necessary to transform, transfigure, break,

enter the amnesia of memory and remember, and, thus,

looking at the world and feeling new, rebellious or different,

it’s like receiving the wind for the first time believing that it is your god,

your parents or love why you ask;

… I will only be born myself by dint of rolling and anointing myself stumbling,

and by dint of growing up and believing that he was a son, a lover or only to be a man;

… And for what or for whom?

for no one;

[only, only male]

… I know the stars will say it, my embrace in the sun, the immense beach,

Or will you say it, my love, perhaps you, who feel the mortal rigor of loving and understanding me.


… I’m not going to stop;

I need to fight with God, with ruins and tinsel,

take my body, light bonfires in all its corners

and tremble at death;

… I need to dare, have friends and enemies,

invade the night, rebuild the lights

and originate the world;

I need the hot and cold land

the deadly thirst that burns the marrow and chokes;

I need another skin to wear

loot the blood and see

that the arc in consciousness has been broken;

… I need to know that I am the being of a god breaking and arming himself;

I need to exercise life;

I need to feel that I am a human being: a woman, a man.


… I asked you dad:

what is love ?

and you answered me:

«Love is mom»;

… Dad, I asked you again:

Why do the fields bloom?

and you told me:

«Because you flourish»;

… And finally insisted:

And death, what is death?

and you answered me:

«Death is me.»


[Madrid – 1964]

[Madrid – 1964]

… where it says «Metro», dense and withered I submerge myself;

and while I go down to the wound like a cell more to rot,

From the quagmire of the world, an air of gangrenous earth hits me and fills me

pockets and mouth;

Stunned, I look at the platform as a mystery with its fire, its instant / noise, its stillness;

… and now, when the worm absorbs me and takes me away, in its womb I am

life and death fighting unceasingly;

… I know I’m dying, the stench doesn’t lie;

the stench is me and the sweaty meat that came, that I am and that here it goes;

… when leaving I observe the last kisses of the night, the last gestures,

the last sadness waving helplessly on the stairs;

… A despondency falls on me like the plague and I am going to die;

But shuddering on screeching irons, I still have the strength to seek the light

and to bet, without other instruments, on the civil air, so wisely expiated, inhospitable and infected.


-Mother, what about pain?

– Son, pain is the fruit of sowing in the stubble;

– Father, is it true that blood enters

do the knives with which we kill the soul flourish?

– My son, knives are hands,

knives are words;

– Father and mother, tell me then what life is

to live it or kill it…;

[… Don’t kill her, son, no, she comes back at dawn]


… from men’s bones someone made awl and civilian articles;

someone bought roses in the squares

and put them on our sacred and civil bones;

and so the soul was civil because someone said that only the civil conscience

she is the one that dies;

… let the stones bark at me, let gales nest for me

and snakes crawl through my civil and warm breath;

a holocaust / tool on me destroy and rebuild

like the plague of sand;

come to rescue the shadow life, but grit your teeth and hold on

the encirclement of drunken spears;

… where do the bones go and where do the roses go,

where, where are they headed? tell me where …

stay with me watching the rivers of life that cross the tongue

and listen, civilians, listen to the wineskins that are broken

and the vine trembling under the strange weapon of pruning;

… Civilians will be the fire, the ash, the wind and the intentional voice,

and maybe, maybe anguish; but maybe, just maybe;

… and death, will it be civil, so, will we do it?

… seek, seek intuition and hear life.


[Spain – 1973]

… I, who came to exercise life from the land of wheat and pitchers,

from the rivers, from all life, from all the winds and the sea

and the entire plateau, I have seen two lies hanging from the sky,

two stars, two sources, two different nights;

… Walking through Spain was experiencing the death rattle of the last bunches

– Spain by harvest –

with open breasts to the red sap of humble and forgotten vines;

walking through Spain and not falling down consisted of being an owl, and dumb,

and go around the Ferris wheel and fill buckets and spill life

and flourish the garden of the master and conscience;

… and I said no,

and I bet the days and cried in the cornfields to feel freer

and closer to the ground;

… the twentieth century creaked under my feet and with it the eternal city, the city of stone

with their stone customs, and also stone spirits along the stream

of water that drowned me;

And while dying here and there, breaking ideas and boredom,

the pothole of grief, and that of not knowing how to grasp the burning handle

of the lamp lit to light me

and see;

… and I said that you had to break, start from something or nothing, roll,

give something to the heart, live or redeem oneself, count the dead

and sneak into the world;

… this has been and is the east and west wind,

This is my vintage, heaven and earth opened by salt and drought;

This is where I came in, here is Spain, here I grieve,

I bleed out and climb like a seaweed until I reach the amber hue

of these restless waters under a rocky sea;

all roads have been trodden, aged, hopeless

therefore, a traveling back and forth who was looking for the rain by day

and at night the stars;

… How many times have I dried my shirt in the sun and drunk

of pure springs and run, to be natural, through fields

alfalfa, wheat and apple trees;

Did I run in solitude? Did the world make me big from looking so much

and I’ve had to be born more and more to learn my names,

all the names, all the sadness and the crying all spilled daily

for the children of Spain?

… here I stand at thirty in my life without anything done;

and I must say, I confess, that I will not miss even a single heartbeat

of the pulse, with which it is for me to live, this terrible blow of history.


… There are the civil trees,

hiding God among the branches, and in autumn,

the crows, inclement, have brought him down to the town;

… God goes from house to house communicating and shouting:

«… I, I am a commoner»;

and gets lost in the square alone,

alone between the bells,

just between two stories,

only between the dust, only between history and dust;

… The square, in the autumn, smells of bones and sadness and of community children;

… There are the civil trees:

without God, without birds, without owner.


[Bilbao – Left Bank -1968;

… With shifts of metalworkers returning home]

… under the cold and the rain the train was leaving corpses of the day

in strange convulsions of the dead;

the wagon was a pond, an illuminated sewer, and the night, dark and enormous,

I fell to the glass with two broken stars in my eyes;

… in hoarse staggering through the irons we were a thousand,

– two thousand hopelessly disinherited – when the train, abruptly without limit,

he stopped that immense procession of fatigue and sleep with violent and savage squeaks;

… I wanted to get up, but struck down by a drowned blow of destruction and death,

season after season I saw them leave without God, without country and without children;

… and alone in the seat, clutching my head with anxiety and fury,

Against fate and doom – holding me and dying –

for them and for me I fought, fought and cried








… when we were not even hopeful, history stopped and, with shame,

left pages and pages blank;

… We are people of the street and of daily departure, we have lost the inherited games due to disuse

and without other invented ones, with nothing for the enormity of this crude prison or unfortunate story,

poor by theft, by taming, blind hens in this universal background sea of ​​rope and blood;

… who will want to judge us? It is a question of men, for men,

only to kill the heart and render it sterile as memory often, useless so many times;

…. no, this hour is not for crying, going back or swearing;

this time is to think about it, count it minute by minute, redo it and leave it in a biblical testament;

But while what do we do, all imagination, no hands and no tongue,

what do we do, nocturnal apostles without a cross or living clientele?

What land can welcome our bones with qualms for cowards,

and what place will welcome – or not welcome – our paralyzed souls, assembled like sad beads

of a rosary that was only inspired by a mystery of mortal unknown?

… and finally, what blazon and ceremony this farewell will have, when at the master’s orders we have reaped

in silence and in silence the sickles have marked us one by one the vertebrae of the soul;

.. bye Bye; I hope my march is not true for a strange trial, but always hurt,

redeeming and true.


[In memoriam]

… Of that town with community children, with stones, rivers and civil trees,

with broken and broken history,

I come today

in the breadth of the soul to remember it;

… In this train / talgo, return from Madrid, eight afternoon, torpor and night

and that colored fucking magazine;

you know what I’m saying, you know that one, those color, sweat and blood magazines,

that the civil and community people buy to know what it is about

that which escapes in vertigo;

In this town without rancor, with corduroy eyes, silence is bought

once a month or a week, sweat and blood are hidden,

hey, the war itself is lost between soccer, whores, bulls and monarchs;

… the traveling night breaks on the train and I don’t know whether to fall asleep or to take the alarm,

and then the wraths – the dark and thirsty wraths – rise up, lash out, and magnify themselves with me.


… I’m dragging your soul with my soul

for narrow and penitent Spain;

they will not mourn your death or my life

the red bell towers


nor the holy Castilian places;

yours was life: the moon-ray, walking here and there free,

the green green of branch and olive …

… and again suffering and aching Spain,

the prisons of Spain, the cries of Spain,

the skin sewn together so as not to explode with fright;

and today, again, the children’s eyes are enlarged

after an oppressed pain that is killing them by the dirt of Spain;

.. I come to life as to battle, and why not say

that barely save breath and standard;

… and, thus, until any afternoon or early morning, Federico.


[Spain – 1973]

… I, who came to exercise life from the land of wheat and pitchers,

from the rivers, from all life, from all the winds, the sea

and the entire plateau, I have seen two lies hanging from the sky,

two stars, two sources, two different nights;

… Walking through Spain was experiencing the death rattle of the last bunches

– Spain by harvest –

with open breasts to the red sap of humble and forgotten vines;

walking through Spain and not falling down consisted of being an owl, and dumb,

and go around the Ferris wheel and fill buckets and spill life

and the garden of the master and his conscience flourish;

… and I said no,

and I bet the days and cried in the cornfields to feel freer

and closer to the ground;

… the twentieth century creaked under my feet and with it the eternal city, the city of stone

with their customs and stone spirits along the stream of water

that I was drowning;

And while dying here and there, breaking ideas and boredom,

the pothole of grief, and that of not knowing how to grasp the burning handle

of the lamp lit to enter it and see;

… and I told myself that I had to break, start from something or nothing and roll,

give something to the heart, live or exert oneself, count the dead

and sneak into the world;

… this has been and is the east and west wind,

This is my vintage, heaven and earth opened by salt and drought;

This is where I came in, here is Spain, here I grieve,

I bleed out and climb like a seaweed until I reach the amber hue

of these restless waters under a rocky sea;

all roads have been trodden, aged, hopeless

therefore, a traveling back and forth who was looking for the rain by day

and at night the stars;

… How many times have I dried my shirt in the sun and drunk

of pure springs and run, to be natural, through fields

alfalfa, wheat and apple trees;

Did I run in solitude? Did the world make me big from looking so much

and I’ve had to be born more and more to learn my names,

all the names, all the sadness and the crying all spilled daily

for the children of Spain?

… here I stand at thirty in my life without anything done;

and I must say, I confess, that I will not miss even a single heartbeat

of the pulse, with which it is for me to live, this terrible blow of history.


… There are the civil trees,

hiding God among the branches, and in autumn,

the crows, inclement, have brought him down to the town;

… God goes from house to house communicating and shouting:

«… I, I am a commoner»;

and gets lost in the square alone,

alone between the bells,

just between two stories,

only between the dust, only between history and dust;

… The square, in the autumn, smells of bones and sadness and of community children;

… There are the civil trees:

without God, without birds, without owner.


[Bilbao – Left Bank -1968;

… With shifts of metalworkers returning home]

… under the cold and the rain the train was leaving corpses of the day

in strange convulsions of the dead;

the wagon was a pond, an illuminated sewer, and the night, dark and enormous,

I fell to the glass with two broken stars in my eyes;

… in hoarse staggering through the irons we were a thousand,

– two thousand hopelessly disinherited – when the train, abruptly without limit,

he stopped that immense procession of fatigue and sleep with violent and savage squeaks;

… I wanted to get up, but struck down by a drowned blow of destruction and death,

season after season I saw them leave without God, without country and without children;

… and alone in the seat, clutching my head with anxiety and fury,

Against fate and doom – holding me and dying –

for them and for me I fought, fought and cried








… when we were not even hopeful, history stopped and, with shame,

left pages and pages blank;

… We are people of the street and of daily departure, we have lost the inherited games due to disuse

and without other invented ones, with nothing for the enormity of this crude prison or unfortunate story,

poor by theft, by taming, blind hens in this universal background sea of ​​rope and blood;

… who will want to judge us? It is a question of men, for men,

only to kill the heart and render it sterile as memory often, useless so many times;

…. no, this hour is not for crying, going back or swearing;

this time is to think about it, count it minute by minute, redo it and leave it in a biblical testament;

But while what do we do, all imagination, no hands and no tongue,

what do we do, nocturnal apostles without a cross or living clientele?

What land can welcome our bones with qualms for cowards,

and what place will welcome – or not welcome – our paralyzed souls, assembled like sad beads

of a rosary that was only inspired by a mystery of mortal unknown?

… and finally, what blazon and ceremony this farewell will have, when at the master’s orders we have reaped

in silence and in silence the sickles have marked us one by one the vertebrae of the soul;

.. bye Bye; I hope my march is not true for a strange trial, but always hurt,

redeeming and true.


[In memoriam]

… Of that town with community children, with stones, rivers and civil trees,

with broken and broken history,

I come today

in the breadth of the soul to remember it;

… In this train / talgo, return from Madrid, eight afternoon, torpor and night

and that colored fucking magazine;

you know what I’m saying, you know that one, those color, sweat and blood magazines,

that the civil and community people buy to know what it is about

that which escapes in vertigo;

In this town without rancor, with corduroy eyes, silence is bought

once a month or a week, sweat and blood are hidden,

hey, the war itself is lost between soccer, whores, bulls and monarchs;

… the traveling night breaks on the train and I don’t know whether to fall asleep or to take the alarm,

and then the wraths – the dark and thirsty wraths – rise up, lash out, and magnify themselves with me.


… I’m dragging your soul with my soul

for narrow and penitent Spain;

they will not mourn your death or my life

the red bell towers


nor the holy Castilian places;

yours was life: the moon-ray, walking here and there free,

the green green of branch and olive …

… and again suffering and aching Spain

the prisons of Spain, the cries of Spain,

the skin sewn together so as not to explode with fright;

and today, again, the children’s eyes are enlarged

after an oppressed pain that is killing them by the dirt of Spain;

.. I come to life as to battle, and why not say

that barely save breath and standard;

… and, thus, until any afternoon or early morning, Federico.


[Spain – 1973]

… I, who came to exercise life from the land of wheat and pitchers,

from the rivers, from all life, from all the winds, the sea

and the entire plateau, I have seen two lies hanging from the sky,

two stars, two sources, two different nights;

… Walking through Spain was experiencing the death rattle of the last bunches

– Spain by harvest –

with open breasts to the red sap of humble and forgotten vines;

walking through Spain and not falling down consisted of being an owl, and dumb,

and go around the Ferris wheel and fill buckets and spill life

and the garden of the master and his conscience flourish;

… and I said no,

and I bet the days and cried in the cornfields to feel freer

and closer to the ground;

… the twentieth century creaked under my feet and with it the eternal city, the city of stone

with their customs and stone spirits along the stream of water

that I was drowning;

And while dying here and there, breaking ideas and boredom,

the pothole of grief, and that of not knowing how to grasp the burning handle

of the lamp lit to enter it and see;

… and I told myself that I had to break, start from something or nothing and roll,

give something to the heart, live or exert oneself, count the dead

and sneak into the world;

… this has been and is the east and west wind,

This is my vintage, heaven and earth opened by salt and drought;

This is where I came in, here is Spain, here I grieve,

I bleed out and climb like a seaweed until I reach the amber hue

of these restless waters under a rocky sea;

all roads have been trodden, aged, hopeless for so many travelers

back and forth that by day was looking for the rain

and at night the stars;

… How many times have I dried my shirt in the sun and drunk

of pure springs and run, to be natural, through fields of alfalfa,

wheat and apple trees;

Did I run in solitude? Did the world make me big from looking so much

and I’ve had to be born more and more to learn my names,

all the names, all the sadness and the crying all spilled daily

for the children of Spain?

… here I stand at thirty in my life without anything done;

and I have to say, I confess, that I will not miss even a single beat

of this pulse with which it is given me to live this terrible blow of history.


-… in honor of Javi and Maricarmen –

… Misery is decimated bread, run and eaten by ants,

hardened by time;

misery is not finding the house because there are no roads

or not finding the roads because a relentless rain of sand has fallen;

misery is having broken compasses, time, values,

and go round and round bouncing, bouncing, falling and getting hurt,

ignore everything and become insensitive until living because death dwells, round,

and it has settled with all its equipments in our chest and life forever;

… When together you can feel clamor and disinheritance and the vigor of theft,

the robbery and the scoundrel, when you feel the iris and the blood blinded

for so much prostitution, dirt and poverty,

When the children stare hard at you in silence,

then, then know that you are in this neighborhood, in this one,

and not in twentieth-century Harlen or any other sewer but this one,

where Javi and Maricarmen are fighting day by day under a sky with their backs turned

and scared, know it;

… that will probably be your earthly thesis and last unconsciousness.


… And your roses and intimate lilies, which are infinite as a beam of light and fire;

Oh, strong, strong mother, of nights and wonders!

… and if my heart – so many times trembling and anguish –

it is stone beating between your kisses and moons,

Ay, ay madrecica of honey, of sigils and miracles!

… And where the air crosses and where the air moans and prays?

Ay madrecica of love, ay madrecica!

Well, aren’t your roses and lilies that beam of light and the firmament on fire …?

… oh my mother, look, we are diluted, the champion of time is leaving us!

… And where, where will he go so night and war and where so alone, where;

… oh, oh mother, oh!


… Oh beloved land, and I will return on you;

I’m going fast and I’ll be multiplied, because I came here at the wrong time, at the wrong time,

in the evening of an immense orgy in which I was a servant-slave

and in which all the dishes and linens, flowers and lights

they were another sun, another story, another song that I’m saving

humble little bits under the ground;

… I will return, beloved land, because I don’t have enough voice or heart,

the world does not fit in my hands and I cannot look at it;

I will return to not be a winter dragonfly and die without finding,

the flower that I expect from the almond tree;

… I will return and I will return even if I have no friends or memories,

and I will serve again and again so that all this song, in your own life,

not be without more and in vain spilled;

… that’s why, that’s why I’ll be back.

= = =



1 – Constant horoscope

2 – Reservoir

3 – How poor we were

4 – Madrigal for a love

5 – Your body is a bunch

6 – We are on the slope

7 – They already opened like two tulips

8 – Strong

9 – A thousand channels drank my mouth

10 – Affirmation

11 – I have assaulted your life

12 – Of the terrible night

13 – My beloved and dear

14 – The Rift

15 – Posthumous to a love

16 – Redemption

17- New flowers of evil

18 – General notice


… and it is your breath, love, the endless wind that burns me,

triumph and defeat, and, in the night,

the climactic message of your bonfire;

… and I don’t take my mouth out of his reach, not because of the wound that goes up to my temples

nor the furnace into which it transforms my head, but for that battle without lights

that hammers in the bones and contorts my soul;

I want to feel without forgiveness the warmth of the well endowed shelter of your chest,

where harmony has focused on tiny shapes, where the sun, twinkling,

it has not reached the glorious domes;

I love your feet, your hands and your hair because they cover all the constellations;

I love the imperceptible movement of your body because it has the melodious rhythm

of heroes, and I love your tears most of all because they are, love,

a bit of your body that is lost;

… I love you in all your principles, in all your extremes;

I love the capricious way that destiny has framed you in time;

I love the clear mind that wanted to be specified in how you are;

and I love the sun, the moon and the stars because in dreams they revolve around your forehead;

… my love, the light melts us in the eternal crucible, spilling beauty along its edges,

and while the world harasses and torments itself, we knead our daily bread;

hurricanes or courses or gales do not matter, our ship is the immense bridge

among the waves, capable against death at the crossing of its wake;

I love you in the greatness of my scant strength, without names of deities,

without names of powers, I love you, oh, my flower, because you keep me in the deep

of your petals;

… and although this prism is broken and the fury lurks,

remember that the sun also clouds and cries behind the clouds, and its tears, virgins,

they transform thistles into buds of lilies.


… I know that this flood, this flood of days and nights, this gale of eternity

described with four hands, has made him travel all the forgetfulness and enclaves of the earth

to discover you;

… and I come to you and I recognize you in the ripe wheat field of your hair,

in the frond of your lips, in your purple and mother-of-pearl chest, in the apotheosis crystal

of your hip;

and here life and here the beat in this acrobatic body in the fury

and instantly broken;

never, never landscape was so beautiful, so much contrast, as when I touch

the land lines of your soul;

I would die hugging your height, I would create a time of free clocks

and a song of silence for all this greatness that I do not include;

… You have redeemed my eyes, my hands and my feet, the unspeakable battle

for what I wanted to give you, from what I could not be, you have redeemed me from the immense desire

with which man struggles, falls down and destroys himself;

… and thus, when looking at you, nature, open, offers me all its essences,

its unusual corners, inch by inch its vertebrae, its poured wine

to concoct this nameless homage madness;

… I am not afraid of the safeguards with which the craters of time come,

I have spring in your roses and autumn in your fruits;

and I will have dreamed and I will have won, and this triumph – flavored with the germs of life –

I raise it to your forehead and I offer it to you.

How poor we were

… How poor we were without each other;

you were poor, I was poor,

we were a faceless light, a fire that was never fanned by more fire;

We were days without a soul, with sad auroras and leaden sunsets,

moons without its fence, sounds wandering across the face of the world;

… and we meet, and suddenly all things

converged and my love mixed with the spell of your eyes

and together roads from there to eternity;

… I know that there is no return, you know that we are united for the days,

that hug us and hug us

to wound our soul between the bones.


… wherever you are,

there will be a breath of eternal poetry;

… wherever your pupil will shine,

there where a sigh your mouth would shake,

where your lip leaves a smile,

you will put a breath of eternal poetry;

… where a moan from you would be agony,

there where the forms curdle harmonies,

I know that you are there,

I know there is poetry.


… Your body is a bundle of offerings, full of ears of corn,

a rosary to die without finishing their accounts, a contained avalanche,

a formidable erosion of the land;

that’s you, my little gazelle, walker, runner,

baker through my crops;

… when I loved you, when I opened your doors,

I was overcome by a chill of surprise and my gifts as a man crashed

in the clay and there I was instructed forever,

hungry and thirsty for inertia;

because you, creator of smiles in a herd,

– the tallest poppy –

you have filled your chalice with my life to the beat that my life of life was filling;

… And everything came together and everything merged, and the fields and the rivers spoke,

the walls and the ivy and they told him everything and said it was ours;

… What beauty, companion, what beauty;

we are invited to nature and it comes singing,

and we will sing with her.


… we are on the slope, love,

and it is hard when injured feet, arms and mouth, soul,

And all the stones emerge with hard hands and tongues and eyes

because the road stretches with a beam of indolence,

and because every night, day and sun squeeze us

and they nail their mask to the forehead;

… we march redeemed by the light of the lips

and we feed each other so as not to die on the way

hung on our back, to mark a footprint

that will discover more eyes, to launch a voice of fire and life

that will feed and be heard;

… Woman – coveted clay from the best potter –

no, you are no longer a burden of inconsequential matter;

how else the light that pulse by pulse welcomes us and lives, like mother-of-pearl and strength

that you are, how the total melting pot of the multiple powers of men;

… And in the end, let’s look at each other, we bring two living tears from a captive sea, ours;

in it we will share the world’s tithes, dreams, pain and smoke

of this immense and deadly bonfire …


… they already opened like two divine tulips

the tall steeples of your chest, the fragile cross of your waist

from where the unequaled margins of your hips radiate, perfect;

… I am a return traveler through the tropics thirsty for your live embers

and I look for the inexhaustible oases of love through the rosiest complexion,

sometimes silk and sometimes velvet;

… I go from hand to hand, from kiss to kiss, I fight,

and in that victory that I share, I am the hero who lives and sleeps

between the sword of your being and your fire;

… In the end there are no booties or claimed parts,

there are no fears, there are no reproaches,

but there is a din of deafening birds breaking in and untying the ivy,

the shores of the sun, the glare, the purest conception of the sea,

its sublime magnitude, its depth, the expectation of the world.


… like a silent volcano,

your love opened up and started ravaging my slopes,

and it burned my chest and my chest stopped it

and the two looked at each other and recognized each other;

[it was a meeting of rocks and fire]

.. wounded chest wound,

you are united to me like clay to the same clay,

and I feel you like sap that penetrates the bones

does not hurt or imprison, does not torment,

you are the glass and perfume of all the roses;

… your pulse beats with my pulse and they burn us,

squeeze and dilate like a huge sign that brings reality

in the body and in the soul;

… get up with me,

today the earth offers us its gifts and its fruits,

and we, fighting with four hands,

we are the boat that triumphs farther from shore;

… but if you smile at me,

I will squeeze your hand to keep fighting.

A thousand channels drank my mouth

… A thousand channels drank my mouth until I found you and you were on the shore;

and seeing you was a life and death beat, a detached block,

a find of snow in the desert;

and I was defeated like a broken clapper,

like a sickle without an edge;

… Winner,

you know the soul of the most feline man and I know your tears;

for them, for each of them,

I would cross all the borders and marks of the earth,

because you know that your eyes are my eyes

and your breath is my breath;

… I am in you the rudest and most truthful man,

the instinct torn from the blood,

but remember what am I, what am I when I kiss you …?

because then you turn on, you thaw, you fade,

and in that instant and pulse that runs over our being and our mouths,

we share a flight without fear of infinity.


… to love us

the belly of the earth was opened,

and from among stones and from among sprouts of life,

my cry arose with your cry

like a roar of vital change.

I have robbed your life

… I have assaulted your life and made it mine;

with a claw I have ripped it off and put it in my hands

and in my eyes, on my back,

I have distributed it with jealousy and eagerness for this continent

of invincible and exalted formulas;

… before the dawn appeared in your eyes of pure wax,

You were already mine, and my steps were looking for you and my strength was looking for you and sensed,

You were already my crystal tower, my true inheritance at the expense of your inheritance;

… I take you and breathe you in, I hold you and implore you, I offend you and I love you,

I walk your soul along a path of brambles and I take a violet to give it to you

at the height of the forehead;

if you were not queen and slave, friend and companion,

if you were not a drop melted with another drop in this body, fire and song,

I would not know how to measure reduced immensities, I would not know why I would have to live

I wouldn’t dare ask myself;

… I would wander without contemplating the landscapes, living adrift and by force,

dying with no way to find you.


… tonight I would like to sell my soul to the devil,

to stab me to heaven,

drink wine and blood,

burn history and sink into oblivion;

… tonight is clean and holy, sweet and beautiful,

tonight I will die to be born again;

but first, raiding the world chase and involving castes and estates,

I will vomit in his bosom, I will break the support of the firmament and I will tear down the bells

who are crying my agony;

[… Lightning and wind, fury, rain and confusion under black cracking clouds,

collide and split;

tonight I walk slowly through the streets in the face of fear, blows, noises and people

with metal eyes and a terrifying scream in the throat]

… where, where am I going?

I am going to win, I am going to tread on the summit,

I will create a dawn of light with hands eager for war

and a soul pregnant with chastisements and reproaches, revenge and grudges …

[… Ah, tomorrow I will be born, and tomorrow, I will be able to win her love, I will be able to have it, I will be able!]

already, the night has already begun to consume itself, I am approaching, it is already declining:

every breath bites and burns, every instant hurts and kills.


… my beloved and dear,

if you gave me your meat, your depressions, your plateaus and mountains of meat,

your scarce and sometimes a lot of meat, your meat and mouth only,

I would not love you;

if you gave me eyes and words,

if to live you brought only enigmas and mysteries,

believe me, I would not love you;

… because by loving me I know what you give me,

and it is not only your meat with all its principles,

but the soul with all its nuances and all its moments;

you give me the possible and the impossible,

the small and the infinite, and you look for it to give it to me,

to give it to me, to make me both her ecstatic patron and her servant,.

and in your delivery the world is what you deliver,

and you feel small and tiny

when you set my blood on fire;

… and so, contemplating this trembling – what power and greatness –

day by day, I love you.



… a flash of life

it opened up my memory;

… the litter of all autumn

and the cold of all winters

They rode through the bare groves of my soul;

… And a snake, with sweet fronds,

she pushed back the leaves and sang to death.


… I will be flesh without a soul,

bone without meat;

I’ll be wild thyme

or perhaps evening poppy;

or who knows, if in an omen of real madness,

my body already lifeless

stands on a cypress;

… I could be plant or clay,

small or giant,

but, my eyes of earth

they will look eternal, eternal,

your image without getting tired.


… Time has made me a granite column;

I am the trunk of palm trees of a temple in oblivion

where an orchard of Christs with inflamed eyes

they wait for a hug tenaciously;

men don’t want hugs or tied pleas

to a tree, man is stone

and the soul is a deposit of food;

… stars will shine in candles and crowns, clappers will tear

the breath, but a powder stuck in my path will be waiting for me;

… there will be no shortcuts to get there first or rivers

That they wait to wade through time, that waist will not be broken

holding the soul on the ground;

… time has made me a granite column without eyes away,

no voice among the echoes; static, dead, I wait for my fall

face to the sky.


… Flowers of evil and death,

lonely grave, fallen capital,

misery for misery and ruin for ruin;

[the raven squawks under the black sky]

… Storm for relief, to ease pain;

deformed faces to heal the shaking chaos;

where the river, a stone; where the mount a stone;

in the street, a thousand stones: the world marches on stoning;

… because I don’t scream, because I don’t destroy,

because I do not raise hands of cruel hypocrisy,

forgetfulness, perhaps hatred to nail the present;

… oh friend,

you, who knew all the ugliness of the earth,

come tell me your story of bleeding chalice,

and I, in return, will sink you in my cellar of gloomy air;

because will you attract me beauty, candor, joy,

the simplicity of things?

look at your useless hands, your mowing mouth, your useless eyes,

even your bone is still useless;

You have escaped in time when you thought it was taking so long

and your trail of light is only discovered in this crazy night;

… Beauty, love, piety and mud…;

everything, everything co-melds under the stale flavor of this enveloping piece

and only;

… for a bite of white bread, I would oppose the pure tongue

of humble eating.


[Spain: 1939 – 1975]

… There is feverish heat in this wild night, in this night of contained wolves;

the air over the round windpipe is deadly

of the telluric throat;

… a muffled and deaf rumble accompanies this heterogeneous march:

cries of brass, bone, steel and flesh,

a strangled cry that perhaps rests on the dying of a wave;

… on the horizon, the day comes riding fearful and cowardly,

gray, and his eyes will be hurt until they make him flee, until they murder him,

and thus, killing, a rosary of bloody time follows;

… Here, the night: the slaughter is about;

there are invitations at every turn, at every intersection;

attendance is global, no etiquette is required;

… If on the way someone asks you: where are you going?

So if you are capable, hold on to it and walk

walk until your feet, rotten with fatigue,

stop your anguish and avoid the return;

… Then you will be safe.

= = =



1 – Witness for the prosecution

2 – Angel

3 – Cierzo

4 – Of the cinema and its time

5 – The Golden Peddler

6 – The world

7 – The King I Know

8 – High on a summer night

9 – Vecilla mixed school

10 – What remains

11 – Midnight

12 – We who were

13 – Óparis and Calipse

14 – Princes

15 – Reflection on my dark double

16 – Steal the air

17 – Meanings of Easter

18 – A fissure in the chest

19 – A wrong rite


Presentation and special dedication:

To «Leona», my dear old bitch, younger sister

– … the shepherd hung it from a flowering apple tree;

and I was that child, with a fixed eye

behind the crack in the door –

… a wild hurricane of needles and breakers shook the garden,

the vertebrae of the world and the udders of flowers;

darkness spread and love and evening flapped aimlessly,

and the swan of life

and the swan of death;

… that nobody, that nobody knows how much pain is,

that nobody knows!

… sometimes I return to the infamous slit

and children appear, the iris chromed,

thrown on the ground;

… no, this is not another torment

Nor is the inclementness other, leaving in live meat

and in the open suddenly;

… and no, sadness has no more payments than an open hole

facing memory, an April of children and destruction

and this absence that attentively follows me, observes me and will watch over me forever.


… Angel, tell me what time does he die?

At what instant do the twilights reverse

and also the heart and the people and the air,

that they forget everything?

and being so, at what moment and hour, tell me,

the seals on the doors are broken and memory enters,

See, he appropriates the pain and leaves instructing joy?

… because it is common to know that this passing or time is not useless

neither in its shadow nor in its flares;

[that’s why, angel, I tell you and ask you]


… unfailingly, its snow and wind reaches every heart,

its reddish glaciers of frozen icebergs,

cold only;

… and if then the fingers of the hands are angels flying

over the telluric immensity

of the chest,

what danger is in going down to feeling

and in full solitude take away the song;

… because if you, fellow ice – wounded god, my sadness –

Say you, I say, will you listen in the frozen basins of blood,

you would find violins of infinite tenderness under rough garb

of a silence without more desperate;

… therefore, if you could remember me and part your lips, name me

and call me, all the violins in the world will be playing.


… when they hit the head with an ax and jump and gush with brains and blood

and the shot immerses us and enters through the terribly open eyes

of the victim,

There are those who justify the argument by pointing out that this would be

the pure reality, or what the hell, that the cracked was the bad guy

of the movie;

And when Rambo, «Dirty» Harry or the pimp on duty

they go in and moving their thumb or forefinger on the bars

and without further ado they destroy them while they rape the waitress on the table

and when leaving they smash the glasses and the face of the man who came from the phone

and everyone be quiet that nothing happens here,

Dumbfounded or through our teeth we tend to say: what bastards!

but also “damn, how they hit…! and the movie of the world goes on and on;

… I don’t know, I don’t know why I now remember the Aranjuez Concert and the maestro Rodrigo,


at the piano, playing it;

that’s the way things are;

… until Tarantino comes out putting some oleander or rose around the house,

take care of you, take care of you and reign you very, very much and deep inside;

… But now, however, laugh, even if you laugh little;

there are no times to undo the belt.


… He was a magical man;

it sold light and it sold shade;

he sold everything;

One day a woman approached him and said:

«I want a gold necklace, do you wear necklaces?»;

«From here you can do it» – answered the peddler -;

and tearing it off, he gave her the hair;

… the woman walked away turning on and off,

until, at last, she was lost in the distance;

… Another woman, seeing the prodigy, met him and said:

«I want the light and the shadow, sell them to me»;

and, ripping them off, the magician gave him his eyes;

… the woman, bright and dark,

quickly, he went to his door;

but, as much as he searched and searched,

he could no longer find her.


… Those guys, the ones we made of winter afternoons

wood of shadows and unforgettable fires, have we all died?

Has anyone been to Paris or New York

Someone has hugged Nelson Mandela or seen the purple sky

from the south,

The one who rises and rises so high and just to be so beautiful?

… where, where are the boys of the color of rye,

those who opened the squares of dust and stone in life

and they inscribed their names on them for the first time?

Will we be alive …? Or will we still doubt that they were true

Machado, Neruda and Cristo,

and that rain in Vecilla or Campo Rojo in Zamora, Candelaria,

there, where the hermitage?

Who are we or what youth do we unite to the peace of the walls

and what truth will we have to attend if they ask us!

… This new land of mine, dear Santurtzi, deeply knows

that I have not died;

and the sea knows it, and Euskadi, and the five roses of the Left Bank,

which are the world.


… speak to me the King,

the one who dresses light among gardens

and the murmur of the ponds dominates;

… Is a King without pages or horses;

he comes and goes, runs like water,

and the water flows

of stones and roses;

… sing to me, sing to me the King

the song of affection that he sang at tournaments,

the one that wounded his enemy and was his motto in exile;

[the King forged his seal with blood and pure blood

and already sealed his blood;

the king wields his power and scepter with intelligent stillness]

… speak to me, then, the King that I know:

the one who conquers the hinges of the doors

and calm, with patience, the furious teeth of dogs.


… There is stillness and suffocation soaks the night;

the street – like pain, deep and long –

go up to the neighborhoods where the moon is another

and a bitter cry discovers a thousand mirrors

of blows and innocence;

… with this placidity, will not freedom be made …?

[no, freedom will not go]

… Like wild pleasure of light and blood,

songs sound through the warmest veins,

the friends who are about to arrive ring,

and reason sounds and hurts, the magnitude that this look of mine ignores

without rules or measures;

… and everything happens now, present and clear as the bell that insists,

the one who’s calling and breaking the wait clean and fresh

suddenly on fire;

… I go and I must open the door carefully, very carefully;

My friends don’t know that the walls of the house are burning


… that narrow school on La Fragua street

– next to the «La Nora» orchard –

and her old teacher, Dona Antonina:

strictly in black, so loving and punctual with the rule of the day,

and her twenty children from after the war;

the side walls whitewashed – high as the sky –

they held two yellow and red maps

and on the front a crucifix;

from part to part, with their rough inlaid inkwells,

the whole banks crossed it, polished by the children with pieces of green gourd,

once a year;

and to the south,

two huge windows with some geraniums consoled the light

of that humble, crooked and desolate street;

… We carried hot stones against the cold in our pockets,

or did we all repeat the multiplication table out loud,

circumscribing the class benches, circling;

… I was four years old after Christmas and my brother, Valentine,

led me by the hand;

somewhere, those two encyclopedias, Middle and Superior Grade, still survive,

that with stealth they spoke of heaven and earth;

… but who would reach 14 years of age and life if by Vecilla and Spain

crossed so much and so cold;

Dona Severina arrived immediately, young, just from there, next door, to Pobladura,

– She died not long ago – and then Dona Lola and Dona Julia,.

I don’t know where;

… I remember the first ones because I knew them and loved them,

but not so to Don Jacinto, that gaunt and one-eyed priest who had long

I had married my father and my mother;

She went from Fresno on a black mare, she threw us in doctrine with sticks,.

and again, with a ceremonial step and a pistol at his belt,

He was returning down the road stretched out, lean, impassive, eternal.


… See that there are many options

and everything is useful;

not just virtue or heroism,

but the error, so necessary;

… we can be deliberately

gods or ruin;

but nothing is the same;

… look at it and study it well,

because, ultimately, what remains,

it is what makes man freer.


… While the night and the moon fly over the land and the sea,

on the highways, the cemeteries, on the nearby mountains

and the city on fire,

I am crying;

… after looking and looking – eyes flattened against the sky –

after a while sharing death with those who cry,

with those who have life as an autumn breath in front of the window,

After a while I say comparatively I understand my unfounded cry

the magnitude and depth of my strength and gods on my sad bones;

… Because the night is, however, beautiful as a tamarind in bloom,

and enthusiastic and serene as a sailboat entering through all ports

open my breath;

… I did not know that my eyes contained so many moon spots

not so many swallows hiding the sun; I didn’t know tonight would come

haunting me from all times not only with desolation,

but with the ineffable wine of this tense and true joy;

…. they blink and the city lights touch me,

the sea and time touch me, this moment touches me,

of which my eyes take possession and hold;

… As if nothing happened in the heart of the night;

as if there were no wounded and broken bones trembling like mine.


… Travellers,

– castaways, visionaries, wanderers –

dear brothers and one by one, you,

those who come and go in all the vans

late afternoon / evening,

Who sings to you?

Where do you go with your hands of stone

and a future without fire or water?

Are you the ones who took the party life with me the other afternoon

and at six in the morning you were lying on the sidewalk like old goats,

against the killer chest?

… And yet you are like a bet,

like the corner of tango the one that beat us with deep hours,

hours that must have the strength to live it and relive it fully and accurately,

so sharp;

but who sings to you? Who will play the crazy tune in the trucks

at night and of bones, who will open a big eye where to look

in this deaf city of love, and who will watch over you next night?

… because I can no longer be anything other than a certain friend who saw you leave,

not from the sidewalk, but lying in life, tangled in this solitude of empty stations where there are no longer free vans and the sky, tall and ocher, seems to weave and deepen these lonely and absolutely rickety shadow and misery of mine seeing you, contemplating you.


[eternal zagales]

… in the mountains

– alone –

they loved and swore in December;

… By December the sheepfolds, the pigeons,

the song of the sky, the light,

and only the snow sun grazes on the peaks

and there it remains, lit;

… Hugging her hemp and glass teddy,

Calipse was to die;

And it is that it was, it was the twenty-third of January when the fire and the storms subsided

and an atrocious cold haunted the packs and the eye of the jaguar and the black bull;

[and such an unbearable cold, never, never has uncertainties]

… Thus, Óparis climbed the mountain climbing it, without it,

for the pure darkness,

by the gray / wild belly of an infinite stone;

… Calipse was next to the door, fallen;

like an icy butterfly he gathered her in his arms and clasped her;

then, looking at her and looking at her, he gently deposited her without haste

on the floor of the hut;

then she lowered her eyes and there she was,.

standing all your life.


… it’s you

Who else has, can or knows more?

… because if you are

who else has,

more can

or more knows,

You are obliged to those who have the least,

less can

and less know;

… in this phenomenal world of unusual talent,

– oh dear friend-


does not exist.


– … because the inner monster of women

is the man, and, the man’s, the woman –

… this terrible monster that emerges from the chasms

atavistic of the soul, this fright of my own life

that to destruction, hatred and blood takes and governs my passions and vertigo,

Will I ever be able to look at it?

Can I take the little clarity with which I protect my heart, give it to him,

and may this mercy reach a gift with which to tithe death …?

… these are the thresholds that I long to cross, my moats, my black waters,

This one, this one I am with a woman’s face rebelling and harassing me;

here I am – my enemy – inside and alone with the strength of a god

and a bloody open glacial sword between the eyes.


… go and steal the air, let the earth know that it is ours

and the angels know it, because madness has already been

and upward goes freedom, upward;

… open, then and light all your life

or just an instant;

What does it cost to anoint a blue lightning

and let it sprout and enter and turn on the light of heaven …!

… Throw melee, throw them away and separate

the chaff of pain and the candeal grain remains,

take it; it will be the consecration, rite and song of joy;

… How much the air carries and how it keeps the skins

that will give living water, which soaks and calms,

the one that makes the face splendid and overwhelms.


… it might seem that nothing happens and that once again

Easter arrives in March or April with butterflies,

with roses and equinoxes immediately after the full moon;

And it might seem like the earth has an obligation to beautify itself

because we have bridges and labor aqueducts to cross,

beaches to spread or processions to make a wax god

and then return;

… and now, back, we will tell that the sun melted us on a hammock

Or that we ate like a whore in a roadside bar

I dont know,

maybe let’s talk about Thursday, Saturday, the video with its shots

or a few laughs for nothing [events and fringes of the trip]

… but there are times when the instruments of the heart do not reach,

are not enough to know why life does not speak,

because for Easter it only grows, plucks, takes the stems in its arms

from the stones and takes them away to death;

… and there are times that if the suns and winds do not burn the heart

from the beaches, if they do not cause fires and hurricanes

because they happen alone and silently,

So where have you gone, what do you have to tell us …?


… the lion knocker

it made me foretell inviolate abysses;

Was that a dark fire and the bronze claw

those who raised my arms with limitless frenzy

towards the winepress of life?

What, what was, oh forces of my ocean, what was time

if instant is and forms eternity itself?

… I called nonetheless and then, from behind fires,

– from behind the foothills of worlds, of burnished bronzes and forces –

at that very moment, you appeared.


… the truth does not flee, it is not worried or ashamed,

and it is tolerant and patient, serene, free, wide;

when we rebel with deeds and words, he has us and looks,

she waits for us and saves us because she lives in us, talks and thinks

in a thousand different ways;

… the truth flows like an endless sea and itself rocks, shines,

and consciously inhabits and inhabits, establishing its fullness and strength;

… The truth, therefore, does not intuit how to do it if it is known in itself and is?

and no, it does not have suffering but understanding, but it is not hidden either,

neither rises nor falls, neither demands nor imposes,

and it is that it resides, only, only resides;

… that’s why I feel it beating,

that’s why I discovered that I have a fissure in my chest,

in him, exactly where I feel and am, exactly where I am and listen.


… Maybe it’s not too late;

Would it do me good to drink from the virtue of cold

of pain and silence and surrender to the fate of salt,

What does the past and madness entail?

Would you do well to take patience

and by spending it against bones and desolation

get the world to open up to me,

know that it has not left and that embers still resist

of my life with which to burn hope?

Would I meditate and thus discover the aridity of the snow,

the hard grapes of instinct and this filigree of voices and fears

That like dark moss stops joy?

… maybe it’s not too late and I have to hug my hands

To open the fires of blood or maybe I have no choice

than dying, which is like keeping quiet with your clothes on

and go from here to there rehabilitating destruction and downtime;

… or maybe being a man is something else

and be searching, blind, an extinct, banal and wrong rite.

= = =



1 – Liberation from utopia

2 – And the door of light was your belly

3 – The flowers and the edges

4 – From the eye of torment

5 – It may be, it has been

6 – Restoration

7 – The Watchers and the Days

8 – The 27 heroes of the quarry

9 – Theorems in the city without mirrors

10 – But not life

11 – Fire Crystal

12 – From the man to the dove

13 – Angel Memorial

14 – Romania 1989

15 – … and I resist

16 – Love and country, not death

17 – Forced Monologue


… utopia is a bird

of fire

that undertakes the infinite behind the mind;

… set her free, let her fly!

… utopia is a girl

that has caught the free flowers from the sun

and girl offers them

for flowers and for free;

… Take the freedom, take the flowers!

… Utopia is genius that originates genius

and force that snatches the song of the gods, men and the earth;

… Oh freedom, oh freedom!


… I have ascended to heaven, I have brought my children and the door of light

It was your belly, your belly in a war of instruments, worlds and gods;

… I still remember my father wandering through the shadows,

– his voice and heart giving my name – calling me in time,.

after the frozen Styx that put tremors between the bones forever;

… Tell me you – messenger of moons – from which pool did you collect life,

with what gift you reduced the wind and kindled the ear of my wheat;

«… to warm the blood – you tell me in a low voice -,

for my belly is the shutter of life and death ”.


… if the sheaths are under the skin and inside my knives,

from the valley of the trembling of the rose a band of doves

penetrates my forehead;

… the horses of fire, that in droves by blood

they soared the soul through life and death,

they alert, oh my heart,

of the flower and the edges with which I flood the streets;

… I am the land that seeks a man’s vibrancy among its land,

the same sacrament that came from the light and left me the flowers

and the edges;

.. I welcome this inheritance with the presence of the bird that sings

and it is riddled, for what strange perfection could fit in this body

without being me and taking me down?


… I have come from a sun with a black crust,

from the mists of heaven with the bow and death

and one llama per night and per waist;

as man and beast I have died,

and like man and beast the flowers have sung to me

when the wind sang the song of his mouth;

[sadness found me with the crescent moon

in the soul

and misery spread]

… if there are no ruins left to die on,

Nor is the double opacity that I brought and went with me immutable;

… today I tear the peace of memory

and the veil that in the mist I wove for death;

I, I am the thirst of the bow that hurries and that knocks down

the shadow and the instant;

… From the eye of torment,

bliss is a pre-Chantian spell that I invoke.


… In storms of tinsel and hard water, lightning comes and goes

of steel;

[the poppies tremble, the ox bellows, and the heart,

and the bee of light and the rings breaks the solar rhythm

of the moments]

… Some children smile after the intimacy of a park;

the wind freezes their smiles and then they cough, they look out over the bridges

and they kill themselves;

… no one wants to be a grid of cloud, mortar, spur of mist

that creates black moons in the hands;

… the air boils, hurting the edges

and the sun of sadness boils;

… I draw the blood to green the afternoon and I no longer know how to stop it;

and risk / heart on the horizon

floods the eyes of the absent with violets.


… I have the honey of the flowers,

a ravine of magpies and vultures and a stream where beasts drink,

and a buried lion,

and sand;

The centuries prowl with an impassive rifle and I oppose the hours,

the fragile heart of the instants;

… A roar of forces and elements breaks out like a sun over bonfires,

and honey and sad birds and cloudy water glorify, shine;

[and a lute of the world, that never said enough,

revolts in the wineskins, from step to oblivion]

… freedom, I want to stay,

cough already terrestrial, already celestial, and be light or loving earth,

and go

– Well, I live –

defollowing the law, the flower,

the non-transferable fire of my manly fevers;

freedom, oh my faithful and noble freedom, in you, in you I want to be, in you I want to die.


… at a gallop, horses on my forehead, wounded shells,

sand watchers defending my beaches

of the salts of time;

… Six spears, six martyrs drinking from a hexagon of blood,

six parents, six auroras of mine looking for the twilights;

they are the unfortunate children that inhabit me;

they are sugar horses with a saddlebag wet from my tongue,

eaten by the mouths that arrive emitting the acrobatics of the world

without limit or rest;

… someone knows that the flower awakens under the sword in bright sandy areas

and everything ceases and only beauty stands tall and ecstatic;

wounded seashells my horses are, and the sea a bloodletting of messages

who sow seeds by memory with lead;

… my fathers and my mothers are here, with me,

and, sometime, the sword dominates them.


… 27 jets

of blood

hitting the stone without staining it;

to the south they shoulder 27 with anger for a field of roses,

and rings under the water 27, and the sky upside down,

and moons hard as a bite

of teeth 27;

… Don’t say it’s the stone, don’t mention the wound

of my brother,

do not touch the green sore

nor the pus of the northern heart;

… Clusters of magnolia trees grow like a hole grows from the screams

to the beat that the roses bleed;

… 27 white birds pass through the veins and it is night;

children dream that men are men and do not grow

and everything is illusion, and they sleep and sleep after dawn.


… by the udders of the wind the sylphs kill each other

and a corner secret roams the city;

The night is so exact …!

… Time workers receive their wages for lost minutes

and nobody understands or comments on it;

So deep, so deep is the salary …!

… some trains cross

and there is no more evidence of some furtive eye, nor imprecise season,

not a reason for the hour;

How fleeting is the echo …!

… and alone, the city defames its own loneliness,

its atavistic hosts of intangible brilliance;

small butterflies can be seen with burnt wings,

no sky in the park;

Ah, how it smells like ash…!

… a flash in the shadow and everything ends,

even the petty hunger of dreaming dogs.


… by looking they grew me

the eyes,

but not life;

… for running the roads,

the lights and shadows grew on me,

but not life;

.. but not life when bones

knotted I grew and I grew in knots

with my man in suspense;

… The rose of two bloods grows and grows,

the vertigo of the soul and the success of time,

but not life.


… where am I from?

and silence is a trot of horses

with cadence on the legs and a light on the rump;

… If I don’t know, how can I go or come or stay?

and the day and night go by,

and the crystal of the horseman disguised in the rose;

… If equinoxes and solstices pass,

Why be from somewhere and not be freedom?

and the horses turn, and the day, and the night,

and the rider who passes with the rose that returns.


… do not be surprised, dove, that the rain will bring you down, that it fades your eyes

and that in a bitter pond a taste of the world

shudder with you;

… do not reveal the happiness that this shadow wove in your guts

that burns;

your wings are beautiful covering beats

through my valleys of smoke, and your moon of oil, which drank the ears

that left my chest for the puddles of May;

… how many times will you see sadness appear

by thrown pots

and a mess of blood you will contend with rags;

We are no longer but pure science and art with the echoes and the wounded god

Of the hours;

only, only that, but so much;

Will the love of time be the genius of sound,

the same wait?

Is it, dove, a cry the instrument that starts from death,

lives it and devours it?


… the dogs are already barking,

They already gather the night and tear it apart at the door of an angel;

the dismembered scrolls of the air creak, the lookouts stir,

And the tongues of smoke are licking ash through the shady pits

with embers of fires;

… a cry is heard

and a heart that runs without chest or shelters, without law or sword,

bird in the routes of the skin that does not know what it is to cry

an angel;

… so much, so much costs at the age of fear and gold

hide stars by fire presses;

butterflies and the dead prowl the wounds of a living tear,

and the tear expands its power and touches them

with decorum in the night;

… There is an angel with broken shoulders rolling on the ground

and dying, fearing the howl of dogs.


… son, while you were growing up, pigeons have died many times

and the love of your mother and my love,

and the soft song of the dawn;

… They have changed the world, son;

… I have waited for you to make the wells of my chest light,

the sowing of lips and time, air,

the thirst for your abundance;

… What traveling force threw its solar horses across the earth

and he opened, from his rumps, the prison of flowers;

… my son, brother, your rose is that of the man who the sun of the heart

shake in free streets;

Come out, come out all the children now that the snow

you know who we are.


… Like stones, the hours;

like old dogs without a home or a moon;

… there is a council of the dead for my soul

and they vote and decide to resist;

… and I resist,

and I am a dove that does not find a prop to land on

because the sky narrows,

and the pain,

that they no longer have to be where they oppress and throw themselves;

..I will take the hours with honor, and their stones, and their dogs,

and these dead who wisely intuit

the seamless blows with which I endure.


… no god

he has kissed me on the forehead

like you,

and no spring


my mouth like your mouth,

and no and never no rain like your arms;

… .With your love and my country

I am

a stone idol


before the people,

between the intact and pure sorrow of my people;

… my love, no song like your kiss

for my broken love, you know and understand;

It is not just an indifferent pain but all the grains

of all the wheat fields

and the sun that lashes them and the wind that cleanses them;

… this fills our open hands, and, about to die with so many innocents,

the clearing of your eyes sets everything on fire, guides it, makes it safe.


… only you, my poor self,

you stay lying

in the immense plain of the soul at midnight;

only you tell me the truth so low,

so close at hand, so close to be caught now;

… I want to be with you in this brief moment

and feel the crisp fangs of silence;

don’t say anything, let’s not talk, let’s face each other

to know who we are;

I think of you my poor being,

I see you,

I welcome you;

you are the hard fist that I carry in my pockets every day,

the sadness in everything,

a fallen sun, defenseless at last as you always were,

like right now, unrepentant, like this same, true, and huge night.

= = =



1 – Story of a man

2 – Man of the West

3 – The Presence

4 – In the magical atriums

5 – Song of a peasant in the city

6 – Autumn print

7 – This is my birth

8 – Spiritual and death of the night

9 – Artia River

10 – Reply to «The love of the soldier» by Pablo Neruda

11 – Loneliness, light and memory

12 – The Man Who Cries Me

13 – Successive consideration of living death

14 – Man and nothing

15 – To the origin

16 – Divine betrothal

17 – New Ode to Mystical Silence

18 – Of the two truths

19 – To you, César Vallejo, friend

20 – Christmas, sonnet before Christ


… like a lover in the middle of life, that man touched his lips,

the temples, the side of pain;

seated, he crossed his fingers and stared

on earth and time, above all, above nothing,

then he swallowed hard and blinked slowly for time, patience, and light;

.. after centuries and generations, slowly, he put a hand in the pocket of the world,

– the rear guard, he thought perhaps –

and looked for something;

He took it out empty and rubbed his hair with that sea of ​​sadness of men and women

that sometime they stop, sit down and without resentment they dialogue with her;

… and as much sun fell as loneliness is,

and the anguish also fell, and the nearby grasses, those that grow and as they grow crowd,

the same ones that dry up the fountains / heart and green joy,

but not the ultimate friendship of walking with himself and identical to the end;

[… That man – they would comment later – had no birth, no country, and no age to die]

… he got up and shook his body like a river going to fall

no more scream than a soul drum thundering, scrutinizing and designing the being

what I wanted to be: two drops of love and two drops of dew;

… and without a trace, among the most subtle of silences, one day he disappeared.


.. surely I have been taking the darkest shortcuts

and uncertain in search of the sustenance of freedom;

my story is the story of men who are silent

when night falls without having signed a clear commitment

with the light of day;

… and it will seem fallacious to speak of slaves, as you will say

What a reverberating utopian militia from a refined time;

you are likely to say that we are in Spain, or the West,

or that we are Atlantic of the world; they will say what I don’t say;

… I carry a deformed god for my body

that is gnawing at my tense syllables as it takes my soul,

– that of the shortcut- and rough to feel it, tied to sustain it,

and of her live with evil, negligently seduced like a pigeon dove

that he had multiple and tragic lovers at the same time;

… today I contemplate this new and slow slavery

that the true lights are enervating me, the value there,

of which I am going to dispose intimately and I have it broken, cut apart,

wandering in me like the shadow that stands impersonal and stunned;

… What is the subliminal voice of the master of happiness, that of the lost song…?

ah twilight beloved, ah millennium of love, mortally seized and ascribed to another greed.


… I am peace holding the tribute

radiant from the earth;

I am the love that begot the light

deep of things;

I am the harmony weaving the wind,

age and boundaries;

I am the eternal beauty that is placid

and stands unscathed;

I am the magic abundance in you,

the gift of the world;

I am, in flower, a bouquet of conscience,

Well I, oh…, I am life.


… under veils of oblivion, the abysmal memory seduces me,

And, with life in heat, I open and enter the magical atria

of the soul;

… a rumor of horses goes crazy in the distance

and turns off;

[the blood is afraid and the silence is total]

… and the infinite forces that inhabit me are silent, they are diluted …

What about life, have I lost my life?

… And I touch the body and the body shudders.


-Triptych –

… I was born among stubble and plantations,

next to the lowing of the ox and the tall chimneys,

almost drinking the water from the wells;

… my mother tore her heart out and put me in the city

binding my life with her breath;

she had the chimera in her hands to give it to me as an inheritance of sweats

and in nothing have I lost it;


… you told me that I am rough,

that I chew the relics that, with another accent,

on long rainy nights my grandfather showed me;

that I admire thick and yellow hands, that I pamper them,

but you still don’t know that white women started kneading stones

in the furrows;

You have told me that your love does not curdle in a peasant,

and I have no words of love

let the winter fires not warm;


… I’m going back;

I flee from the temple agitated by mysteries,

I go in search of the god of the cars and the stream;

I won’t break my cradle like the old log

nor will their lament ever be heard in the valley;

… I carry the desire to cut ears of corn to herds

and give them a kiss in love;

I love, I love whole wheat, yellow and red.


… jaspers and rubies vibrate between jarales and poplars;

on her keyboard, the leaves in the clean air tear.

steeds by memory, and at her rump, between two lights,.

rider, the sun,

I know




… And in the distance, still, screaming, the children;

… From a party the light goes away turning the sky red,

and the soul, prey of lovers, burns between its lights.


.. I have encrypted my age in seven years

because I have sold the rest of my days and my nights;

Although well, it is well worth being born on the exact date,

but to be born;

… and thus, with so much purchase, time merchants go

with so much life;

it is an immense deficit that they owe me

by taking the threads of my people for scrap;

… I am willing with the word to give resurrection

to the deceased lights and to imagine and make a recent inscription

in the records;

… Does not prescribe this right to open,

although it is very sad to come into the world with eyes that are hurtful because they are mature;

… and I can’t play anymore

because they have given thirty of life and too many,

too many commitments await

before stopping and bringing the sun.


[… Once again, in honor of Lorca]

… the night, touched in satin, red eyes, crossed

dreaming of palm trees among a crowd of orange trees;

… Shells of snow and salt boiled on her cheeks,

and fleeing from the alabaster they were made of metal;

dying for the celestial roofs of the acacias,

– when there is trembling and dew on the honey of the branches –

a barrage of thyme with moons and velvets

sowing, the lips of the hyacinths passed with pearls;

… what splendor and hubbub, what storms of light

on silver diadems made on anvils of the day;

… and if a sash of ivory dresses wanted the night

to stand in the palm trees with a bustle of virgins,

forges without fires or goldsmiths tempered the splendor;

[With what is life lit, with what love and death …!]

… blue curls of blood, on amber shelves,

already cover the ocher and green dreams of lovers; belly, bed and wings; night that, not to die,

her white veins spurted open in the morning.


[… When they saw him…, they shouted saying:

«Crucify him, crucify him»]

… on the banks of the Artia, in the spring sun and as always, without haste,

the people had come to the transparent calm of a typical day of celebration, joy and celebration;

and so while the doves brought and left the joy of the air by the water

and the children played with them innocence, amazement and meekness,

the fish crowded the shore and the acacias, like true virgins on the face of the meadow,

– with clusters of pristine branches –

they adorned the triumph of hours filled with friendship and splendid harmony;

… and suddenly, without knowing why or how, that serene symbol of peace, song and tenderness,

suddenly turned into vandalism pigeon hunting, stoning fish

and in brutal tearing of the acacias;

for the people, wildly thirsty for horror and fury, dragged the doves,

the fish and the branches through meadows and through streets to the cry of blood and blood, blood and fire!

… to the insomniac love of silence, broken, fallen, I asked and asked that in what backwaters of man

light and stupidity are and lie alive, and why intimate and enigmatic cracks will be framed and hidden,

they are poured and avoided;

… I asked myself, finally, that in what complexity, deep and cold, will the mind assist

to the monstrous scorn in which the whole man is corrupted and bankrupt, disturbed and kills;

It’s eleven at night;

It is four p.m.


by Pablo Neruda

… Woman, wake up;

it’s already dawning

and I have slept and dreamed

with the rifle and with you,

the three in a macabre dance of wisps,

without sense;

he transgressed the basting of the spirit,

and my hands trembled as they did so many times;

… and I looked for you,

in the middle of an orgy of tears and laughter,

under this tragic emotion of apparent life;

… look,

let’s put the rifle next to the soot of the old fireplace,

and spiders cover the sad holes of death;

and forget, forget that you had no homeland, your homeland was the world,

and where your feet stepped there was land of the country;

… Come on, then, in this new march your smile flourishes with mine:

no shoes on the feet;

the road is sand.


.. the few swallows are gone

that brightened the afternoon in the eaves;

autumn dresses in the chimneys

and the silence penetrates the oaks;

… For the mountains of the soul and its hills

the mind shudders in the alberos;

the ocher, uphill on the trails,

leads to the crystalline fountains;

… Next to the trunk and branches of this fig tree,

– between the air and the trembling of life –

loneliness goes to bed very early;

and on his spinning wheel, of a true spinner,.

the light is weaving, in my memory,

to the faithful and exact edge of his hand.


… And it has happened again that the man cries for me;

I listen to him with affection and surprise him,

and he runs away from me through life

to hide in a daze behind the soul;

.. well I know the power of their bonfires

burning embers on his side;

I have felt its light and its ashes

looking for me far from himself;

… no angel knew what blood is

made gall by the gully of the bone

nor to shore in the shine of a tear;

… I don’t know if in the eyes of a mother

it streaked so much pity, so much tenderness;

God of love is the man who cries for me.


… who could die every day

and at dawn be aware,

because the soul has hurt me again

and when I hurt myself I don’t know if I died;

… if Tantalus was consumed with thirst,

What force held him tenaciously?

Did we not drink from its source

the nectar of love and ambrosia?

… Invisible and exact my ailments

they pass through my body and use it

as a glass of aromas and essence

and if while dying they vitalize me,

What am I to be between fires that sharpen

the very high boil of my urgencies?


… in a body of light and memory

reeds spring from the well of sorrow,

and in the sickle, where gangrene blows,

they dilute her heights and her glory;

… fleeting is the promise, and illusory,

very short this flight without chain;

the songs of the soul in the sand

with spells of blood through history;

… how and where is this transit addressed,

when the iris of gold and desire

inclement burn my gaze?

… what anguish to contemplate and not live

losing the being, the soul and the tournament;

what a shame to be a man and to be nothing.


… I want to meet again and go so far,

than time, diluting memory,

is the stone and the footprint in which my scum

he transmutes this anxiety into his reflexes;

… absorbed where my mirrors emerge,

I go believing that the water of my ferris wheel

will never have more part in the victory

more complex buckets to use;

… mineral aroma I bring on my forehead,

garment of earth and thyme,

galloping steeds;

… my life never walked in such brightness

as going to the origin of its source

and be his fire, his anvil and his hammer.


… it was a land of wheat and cornfields

with musk and cherry blushes;

it was the cry of God and his beauty

spilled among clean cereals;

… what better than with virgin dreams

give life, and, in gulps, with certainty,

flood the rings of wealth

for these hard and pure betrothal?

… channel was this land and, in my chest,

sharp pins stuck in,

wounding an unsatisfied heart;

the soul and the pain rose

and, under the shelter of the air they drew,

the glitter of their weddings already undone.


… if the challenge to fly that the soul craves

it is a tenacious cry towards the height,

what is felt inside, alone and pure,

the torch with the light that thus guides it;

and if in shadow the pain challenges her,

what mystery will that beauty have

– if under the cover of crying and torture –

make joy the anguish in which he lived;

… through the notes in which it lives

the essential song of the spheres,

an ecstasy of peace rushes;

and on wings of emotion, the lightest,

the heart gets drunk in a thousand ways

with hints of sun that gravitate on it.


… Because there will be no knowledge without faith,

hear the heart, hear the song

pure of life with which crying

pluck the water and thirst of feeling;

… But, where is the reason and its argument;

Or on what to base the idea without breaking

and tell me a truth if in the meantime

do prayer and its wonder tie together?

… I’m only between trail crossings

without magic inheritance, without more timpani

than hearing my feet looking for other boundaries;

… And if the dart of love from my wheat fields

it won’t hurt, tell me, what pains

there would be no mercy in my barns.


… with longing the world commemorates

your swift run as chosen,

oh condor in the height surprised

when April was early and untimely;

… was your singing burning word

that, wiping your badly hurt breath,

gave shelter deep and moved

the invertebral echo that devours us;

… Perhaps from genius and ambrosia,

tenderness was never born so deep,

What transit of love from your bitterness?

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

… Caesar broke his bread at noon,

broke his warm and ripe loaf,

He gave us his heart, what else could he …?

CHRISTMAS: sonnet before Christ

… by singing «Glory to God in the highest»

and the rain of the Beloved opens up to me,

prisoner I am from an echo in love

that floods the heart with pure voices;

… and the peace ? Have you not broken into the dark

hollows of the soul, and has given us,

that humble courage, with which he has sealed,

dramatic affronts and bitterness?

… And before the breast of Christ, before his cross:

«Open me, Lord, open me to Life,

that I want to catch on to You ”- I groan and pray;

… and Christ at Christmas is so much light,

Such strength and compassion, mercy and grace,

that burned in my will and burned in his fire.

= = =


1 – Joint pain

2 – This sowing – 1975

3 – 2nd Place

4 – Castilian plains

5 – My city of stone

6 – Centennials of silence

7 – Brutal and heinous

8 – My village

9 – Mother of Broken Arms

10 – Spanish

11 – Autumn Cross

12 – Poppies and violets

13 – The Metro

14 – Resist

15 – The well fenced

16 – The Sting and the Syrup

17 – From Owl to Stork

18 – Water and blood on shoes

19 – Yesterday and Today (1939-2013)

20 – Return to questions

21 – I sing for a moment

22 – Voice in exile

23 – The immense afternoon

24 – Europe

25 – Thirty in the afternoon

26 – Leaky gable roof

27 – In the hour of your womb

28 – Psychoanalysis of living

29 – Cactus flower

30 – Letter VI

31 – Of the roses

32 – Dialogue with pain

33 – Overflow of song and silence

34 – Twenty-four round hours

35 – Father was going to die

36 – Poem of wind versus wind

= = =


… You suffer, my people,

because your meat is cordoned off street meat,

a coming and going, a fight, a search for the truth that nobody brought and you never had;

… and it is that, although sad to say, sad and necessary,

the love of the house radiates and becomes great, when it runs,

a drop of blood calls and glows on the asphalt or the stair rail;

my people, your heart, your eyes and your mouth are all my justice,

and I am looking for a hymn of peace with my neighbor;

… peace is urgent in these places, the salary in your pocket,

and a cry of joy with which this youth fights and conquers the stench, the ice and the silence;

… my people tremble, and, entering the night, no, it does not imply a victory,

but watch and watch, and, between horror and screams, fear and resist, seek the light and resurrect the day.


– 1975 –

… homeland:

after this sowing – beauty of poppies – hunger is immense this winter,

when so much stubble presents its stumps, still red;

… Yesterday my friends and enemies have died:

everything, a terrifying autumn of mud, wind and rain;

What clean clarity can soak us, if so much solitude points to dawn?

ah, you have been left alone among the earth with all the exiles

and forgetfulness of other countries;

… And no, I am not sorry at the cost of the laurel that grows green:

I will put crosses, or stones,

a sign, a pain in the hour of your belly;

… Walking alone, I can’t find the stars;

a sadness runs through my arms, and I don’t know, I don’t know how to stop it.



… without giving three thirty in the afternoon, a group of neighbors,

in the most useful corner of the square, they accumulate their needles;

it’s five o’clock, six o’clock,

when the wind decides to entertain itself by playing with the yellow leaves, with the red ones, with the black ones,

and the men arrive from their houses smelling of a storm, downhill:

the painful task, the regime, the wine;

And everything, everything comes in their shoes, in their severed heads, in their bloated stomach,

while autumn plays in swirls with the hours and the traveling leaves, with all, with all the leaves;

… In an instant, on the terraces, the abysses begin to fill with folded arms

and faces without an identity card;

And if the wind continues its game around and carries contained imprecations towards the leaves,

out of habit, a huge consumer can is the target of child kicks,

the lantern in the center has been crowned, and in the porch next door, devoid of stars, the ceiling,

the game of marked cards is played;

… slowly the shouting leaves with the sticky wind of autumn, and the night, like a black mastodon,

she goes to bed sick and in pain, routine and alone;

Some frogs croak and, clumsily, from I don’t know where, tired and distressed dogs bark,

… So the square sleeps, and a hunch of Spain, here and now, shuts up and dreams, sleeps and sleeps.


… Between sun, and time, and solitude, there, on the ground, and stooped, there is a man mixed with the earth;

and there’s a chariot and a donkey tied to it, and under a harsh sky, falling and falling in bunches of fire and famine,

an elusive horizon of clay and lime flows,

and the immensity, and the fear;

ah, there were no violins on their wedding nights, but dawn, dawn, and only dawn;

… far, far away, the hoe, the thresher and the scythe remain, the witches of sun and dust,

sowing by hand,

the ice,

and all the insects that guarded manure and scrutinized the eyes and skin so early in the morning;

… No, I don’t know what blessing bread brings to my table every day, that when I eat it,

I pour out that huge and true perfume of the plain:

two men for a pain,

and a hand bringing it to the mouth.


… until it wounds and burns it, a cruel wasteland and a light that is harshly enraged with the earth;

… ah, no, there was no song for the dead or the living,

where only horseflies and ants are nurtured and acclimatized under dense mourning and ruthless horizons;

… In his walk, he searches and searches for the traveler in transit,

– what a great need –

to the grave sentinel of her grave,.

good bye,

or another man …

… the spirit, here,

it is rather the own being or shadow,

that of the one who continues and continues to persecute and does not speak:

the anguish, the agony, a hysterical and authentic trembling of fear.


… like a projected and dry shadow,

like handmade and put here and so,


ay Zamora,

more distant than Cordoba so lonely and colder in the winter when the sun goes down at sunset;

… Pain was not born where God and men watered and sowed,

where mothers did not give birth to a free womb under oaks,

Or the wind did not roar and roar on the red face of clay,

no, no, the pain was always there, looking, and unscathed;

… And between famines and exiles, it is difficult to expel the heart;

not even oblivion can feed it and tell it:

“Look at your hunger, the altar of your home without coal;

feet on the road is better ”;

… I go back and forth against the sun and against the night,

full of stone,

where the whole being crashes against history and shudders …

… yes, some seed fell from the sky and did not grow,

and it is very sad to carry it and keep it parasitic on the chest like a projected and dry shadow,

like handmade and put here, here and so,

looking and aching forever.


… You have to be silent and meditate with judgment, when demerit or adverse luck penetrates history and moth;

You have to contain your manhood and understand how pain, born of the earth, is so much pain,

Well, it goes from artery to artery, until doing without more than feeling

a vast bell tower without lights or mercy;

… Ah, my Castilla of today, nurse and mother, widow and transgressed;

who, who changed your mantle and your crown for corduroy outfits,

who anointed you loneliness and engendered this cruel desolation,

who cursed the powerful, the pure light and plundered your body, until leaving your entrails in the open;

… no, the breeze will not run through the steppe while life blows through the peaks,

and you, so flat, and so much and so much, that the horizon hurts when the sun falls so far away,

– so immensely far –

that seems not to cross if it were not for the spoil of your old blood, the one that ignites and shines in the sunset,

which guardian of fire, eternal and penitent;

… A trail of salt and a pickaxe is a hard seedbed, anchored and fallen on the plain,

and a sad love,

and a bird on the ground is picking you up;

… Today, and in this instant and night, dogs bark at the moon like a crude profession that offends and overwhelms;

the skin gets used to it, and, with a firm and hard gesture, the pores close to the rain,

and to the subjective and enormous trance of death.


… I always loved the glow and they only let me cry free;

with my childhood they played black butterflies, and a precocious love,

and a suburb of God to lies;

done like this,

any teenager implies sixty kilos of sadness, and eternal hunger, and thirst,

and a drastic road without water or palm trees;

… My people and my city were ancient sickles and stones of rotten and tainted secrets in the ear,

the same ones that never carried the wind or killed a knife or swallowed the earth;

… And all, all were friends and enemies:

the old women,

the Wizards,

the swifts,


and the stork;

and if looking at the stork, the sun toasted my face,

my dry eyes asked for a tear and my feet for running shoes and crying,

to hide, at last, the brutal, the atrocious: the enormous ruin of the war and after the war


… disturbed street, fallen mud with white dust, very white,

as of humbly dead bones;

… oh human rot, chiselled and matured, where the heart does not matter

nor the drops of rain for lips and throats;

… there is no need to not mind dying so that some daring may be saved

and then come the wretched, mine, the poorest, the most distant,

those of us who are nobody, nobody, nobody and nobody …

… The moon tastes like a bitter kiss and some sunflowers no longer look at the sun;

the dust reaches them and there it holds them, lulls them, breaks them, drowns them;

… My poor village…!

who carried my bones through your streets and left them hanging in the wind;

no, it was neither my father nor my mother,

for we were all killed by a huge, and serious, kick of history.



… The mother of the broken arms, still, still adorns herself when the open branches arrive;

the great mother of mine is fallen, on the ground, is on the ground,

and the rain carries it away like a waste of blood and clay;

[my mother comes and goes in my shoes,

my mother, my mother, lost her arms yesterday afternoon]

… Her sadness is true, and her hair is rainbows crossed over a pile of stones and poverty;

… The branches are bitter now and the flowers cry in the streets and squares;

… my great mother, Spain executed,

among flowering trees she has died, and I don’t want to, I don’t want to bury her.


… like a mother without arms, I say, like this, like this I do contemplate my homeland,

and it is very sad to have the feeling of the honor and the repentant field;

what indignity not to feel, only, the nectar of her land and her elemental gift;

… in the hard blank pages, the shaken history still beats,

and a blur, on new account, is seen around the corner, where we are now,

where art asks me to shut up because there are no more arms than those we cut;

… an image like that, a voice begs me, and a stop,

and a serious love for things:

this one, ours, the terrible and silent one, the one we are in now, the one we now have.


… Oh my Spanish;

the brave party is transgressed, constant and innocent blood;

what an empty screaming

when the noise empties us

and the silence is dense at the turn of the afternoon;

… Oh my Spanish;

Spain is deeper than football, than mass and the old iron of the plow,

and, although with a party face, a serious chill runs through her;

… good Spanish, of salt, blood and jet,

go out of the house to breathe the time and stop the pain with which it intoxicates

the fog and dissipates us;

… my Spanish,

tied, still, to fear, to the jar, and to the table.



… my love,

how crude is the silence when waking up;

We have waited for springs of light, and our land is a vintage land,

a dart of fire in flight, a lute, her cry, an autumnal shiver;

We will not know if the dead sin or do not sin, if they forget or forgive,

but we do know that all his medals were chestless and under time,

which total cross in a sad landscape;

… my love, what a pain to stay in the corner with bones and eyes in shadow

and not being able to burn with the rest of the street,

burn in each home, gather neighbors and make friends with the people;

… And the thing is, waking up here is a different thing;

this is a shipwreck coast where you can see, in the distance, an olive grove, or a meadow,

immensely unpublished and green.


… no man’s land, my land,

attacked, outraged,

land of fraud and slander,

of crosses and stones,

land, land without light or freedom,

oh, homeland, my homeland;

… what reasons should I tell those who hate the bulrush and bulrush,

to make you certain and clean again;

… By an act of faith, I would sow, I would sow a mustard seed this fall like new rain,

or sowing pure sun in your belly of snow;

so, so is my love, and so I love you.



… the cold of the soul breaks out this autumn like poppy buds

and cleft by hopeless death;

ah, violets are also born unexpectedly and the field presents them with a broken waist;

[silent and lonely nightingale, lost turtledove, wounded tiger, you, my self,

all of us waiting for a definitive gift]

… this luck of living, always luck,

what dilapidation on the edge of the puddles, reflecting us what base hopelessness;

[living wells, shocked rivers towards an end of organic teeth,

ah, rivers of life, enormous sap, flint of broken love and honor;

… A pocket-sized archival autumn, full of memory and a hummus of sadness;

it smells of compassion and old dried thistle;

the world looks like a dead god;

a resurrection draws near and the dead begin to move.


… A justice was coming with me, rolling towards my house;

I found the men in the Metro lost, as homeless, as without time, without children …

a storm of deep things that lies down in the air and lives and feeds there,

like a creeping and climbing algae that ate everything and vomited;

… maybe, maybe, I thought, they all ignored the blue sky at noon,

– blessed, natural and clean pergola –

beyond the life swallowed up by the atavistic impiety of the tunnel,

O vile generation, full of lines and all deceived;

Would they know, I say, wheat fields and poppies, offering fruit or beauty?

Would anyone have broken the trembling of the sea, the air, the fire,

and acquired, and pure, the smile forever?

… run, run, my dear, and learn where you want, where you can,

where there is something constant, yours and mine, and until something tells you, definitely,

that the peoples break down, stand still, border and debase;

So stop, stop at me, because you’ve come to fight.


… there is no longer any possible pain to feel or perhaps moral or religion on which to lean,

Well, I would have to hurt and ache to have a soul and a soul, accurate and sufficient;

and all for my country, like yesterday, like never before;

… I,

that I walked among the harvest lost and wounding myself in the poplars, drinking moon and river,

and now I light bonfires to give me light,

when I’m still chasing butterflies with my hands …

… what a cruel onslaught,

what a heinous betrayal what remains in memory,

what I keep without knowing how to get to the bottom;

… all love goes in meditation and the roar of the blood I hear content, attentive,

so that it does not break now, so as not to break, like a wandering reed, in the middle of the asphalt,

and definitely fall and succumb.


… The deceit is well enclosed without heat;

glass eyes and bandages for this faithful bull with signs of esparto grass and misery;

… burn the peace in this square of invertebrate and vile fighting,

with wide burladeros and long infirmary, bathed in blood without goring;

the sun hurts,

everything blinds, covers it up,

the clocks stop, the shadow is more shadow,

and an infinite loneliness clings to the arena and sucks the sweat that soaks the eyes and splints;

… And the faithful bull suffers everything,

even not wanting to die with a rapier and with a pure heart;

perhaps an executioner, behind a mockery, will knock him down and surprise him;

… The party continues when the bugles and God are short of hands and breath;

a cut wind eats up the lie and also the bull and his bellowing;

nothing, nothing is heard,

not even the rumor of the lurking owls.


… I,

that I do not come for glory or rot between ladies whores or nnoñas,

that often burns and deforms my tongue like a scalded cat

and I return to the charge again and again with inflation of fury because I am of human stock,

that I have no panoplies reserved for anyone, anyone,

and I want to play life and death when I want or feel like it,

sometimes, I say, I dissipate myself and I am a huge shroud with all the men in my room, and alone;

… then I curse myself,

And I put my thoughts to pray


… I don’t know how the dawn has overwhelmed me and how, at night, I have become an owl

by dint of inhabiting darkness;

It is as if a dense mist covered my feet and rose through my body until I felt,

in its vapor, the pain of the earth, its cracks and wastelands;

… And now I understand that my spirit is not that of an owl, because it agitates flesh and bones,

by honoring me with the absorbed eye of amazement;

when I listen carefully with him, and in him,

– ah, finally hear –

the purest words of life sound, and a go, or stay, or die forever,

it is all between the hands, so full of truth, and without a worthy glass where to leave it;

… no, it is not only sad to take refuge in this night and day and live it wisely,

like a hungry fox, no;

it is treason and no, not dew that fights against the dream;

it’s better to live or die whenever and wherever,

and not being an owl but a tall stork, close to the sky and shining in the sun.


… beat the rain on the moon’s eye and soul,

and the sunflowers fall asleep in the toasted and bittersweet night;

do not hear the cooing of pigeons,

not a bad kiss,

and neither, neither pursued steps;

… the rain falls

in the dark without spot;

the blessed trees receive it,

the chest of the earth and the moss that nests in the walls;

a mystery falls stabbing daggers on awake loneliness,

And, through the days, the water has been running down with the blood until I know, for sure,

that even the shoes support us;

… and a scream,

– of unexpected horror –

suddenly brings us all back to life.


if I had not seen my grandmother and my grandfather cry for the son killed on the battlefront

and the shopkeepers deceive my mother,

If I did not remember the rationing, the stones at birds, cats and dogs,

the ravenously shelled corn and wheat and the hunger that came and went with reproaches,

and the cough and grief,

perhaps, I say, did not remember innocent mornings and weary oxen,

also, so innocent;

… how can I be on this side, about a story that I have not done,

How can I honestly think that all love was the rain on my damaged child face

before I was a child …

… No, no more prostitution where everything has been and is prostituted;

God come to protect these verses as to that corn and wheat, flour and seed of walking;

… It is not possible to deny when the fields, the bridges and the stones still sing it;

Perhaps it is the cleanest and most sought after: simply peace of heart;

Who can demand me, then, and suddenly, who can model me, if all pottery was maiden patina

and then fantasy;

… It is better to run through the pain and suffocate it for the soul, break it at its root

and be a little incomplete,

but true;

On how many mornings has the light of simplicity burned!

… and it was, and it is, so easy to open the door, and let time enter and let it breathe,

and smell like spring …


… without friends, purification comes without newspapers or whiskey,

and, with dry thought, the fence of the soul encompasses the universe;

a question brings as an answer the immense loneliness of the centuries to clothe my heart,

here, in the dark cavern of time, the one that contains bound and seized the chest;

… what about me,

What next,

what and why;

by force these excessive, carved and indelible questions;

ah, neither will the sunlight nor the blessed psalms answer,

not even hope girded by the blood of the dead,

Well alone, well I’m just with a pinch of God under my tongue;

… yes, yes, it should be a piece of marble or granite and endure, or break,

or be of anyone who cleanly wants to direct, or instruct, the wind a stone.


… It is difficult to run and run without tearing the barely understood word;

who, who can boast of a wide sky, like a garden that begets stars,

one by one, and with the whole existence ahead;

… my being had no other truth than to walk free, free,

and eat the simplest graces cleanly;

… Because a song and a rumor are being heard by the people and for the people;

he is asking for his gift, the gifts, his many natural graces;

I am a piece of the people and a voice that sings against no and crying;

… I am me and my will:

And I’ll be free, I’ll be free, I’ll be free


… and with this stream of warm love that steals our soul,

– You, on the other side, I, on this –

the day dies and also the night and we are still alive;

Ah, how important is it just not to die and touch and breathe the light,

feel the birds or smell your hair of wheat and rosemary, when I know that it is cold, and sorrow,

and you’re on the other side …!

… it will fade, the silence will rot on a thread or hunt of life,

and there will be a tremor, and you on the other side, always, always,

– Beautifull –

and on the other side;

as if nothing happened,

as if only, only loved you, the voices of other children.


… At dawn, the name itself vibrates on the lips;

through shadows and cracks the sun rises as always, as it comes today, as right now;

marching against the light, I invite you to live the lost immensity,

leaving the poplars and poplars awaiting the abandoned day;

… I cannot stop in hope and encourage a mutilated air yesterday, or when;

I don’t know where I learned or forgot the spells, the proverbs, the value of things,

either yes or no, to later believe and flee to the contrary;

… It is so early for the skin, that I am ashamed to have to wear it inhospitable and constant;

I pick up the bread and being,

I cross the dew, which is not,

and I am about to live the long afternoon, the immemorial one, this one, as it is, what it is, the immense afternoon.


… nothing alters my mind and heart like the taste of my daughters

to feel her unrepeatable kiss;

… and no, it is not possible to hold the voice or the clear tenderness,

when the icy wind has joined the bones forever;

cypresses and violets will grow without pain just for this joy that I tear and snatch from my heart;

what emotion, my daughters, what emotion if a gesture from your father

it goes and stays with you;

the land would have been generous, if a gesture from your father survived;

… My daughters, my little belonging as a beloved:

the feast of bread on the table, and a single heart on the plates.


… Ave Maria,

the sky of Europe is a white oval dotted with the fury of its gods;

the cemeteries are, Ave Maria,

four thousand pebbles with a headband, plus two poppies, four tense afternoons and two broken walls;

… Hail Mary love, Hail Mary now,

the crystalline teeth of water are of fire

and our furrows are burned long before the triumphal sun, the one that once ascended and carried us towards summer;

… What do you have, for this people without faith or sea, Hail Mary,

that today wanders, groans and coughs amid the stench of ancient symbols, civil and dogmatic;

… This year, will the swallows come this year, will they come, Hail Mary…?

Or will they be attacked by black bats when they sleep …?

… Ah, how, how to avoid being wandering sunflowers before the day arrives;

we are and we are my brothers and I, Hail Mary, broken and here, we are here,

under the white oval of a shudder with a world hunch, authentic and strange;

… But oh the roots of power, the anguish, and oh, oh the trembling of the south!


… Six in the morning: the soul crunches through its own suburbs,

and from among pools with reeds, oh, the cold nightmare of grief,

jumps onto the meadow, smearing it with mud;

… Twelve in the morning: in life it is twelve,

and twelve are the nerves that grip my head,

twelve my thoughts at twelve,

twelve, twelve are the spells that crown me with glory,

twelve needles, only and only twelve,

Of the twelve clocks lurking on the table

when the bread is still a dry dream of inclement weather on the brink of autumn;

thirty in the afternoon, and life in the middle of a circle of burning earth

in which there is neither good nor evil,

yes, just a small embers of existence;

… Only a miracle, will be able to mark, tomorrow, the face of a conscious and determined dawn.


… I arrived when my father’s mind was already annihilated,

when death had shaded my mother’s eyes,

when the earth was plowed against so much silence at the cost of silences

and the price of bread could not be considered due to excess of hunger and prices;

decimated the hollows of the hearth, like an immense strip without light in the eyes,

that’s how I arrived, between living leaks, between horrible, between enormous and persistent alive cries;

being born a man was not a luxury, nor was growing up,

not even throw stones at dogs;

… I don’t know, I don’t know who passed through this land that, without taking anything,

he left her assaulted forever;

Come and behold broken bell towers and loneliness clinging to clappers;

Get out of town, apparent and frivolous

And enter malnourished villages, where cruel superstition has stained the air

with dishonored thousands of floating and present spirits;

… Who will be able to act as executor of this inheritance, of endemic harvest, between a thousand generations

that split the world into a hundred pieces of misery,

and how can I tell other men «I have not been responsible, how …»

… ah pain,

you are unjust when you have nourished yourself in the womb of sad mothers;

and, oh, my good companions of sadness on the shoulder, my dear minstrels of farces and boredom;

still, we still have a bell each;

I sense an echo, and this cost of living is relieved.


… It is difficult to describe your profile,

your lines, the color of your skin …;

I watch and admire you

and I go to you and I blush when I put my hands on the bright light of your belly;

… eternity is round, it is here, I hear it,

and my eyes fall on her with immense fear of slaughter, that she will split, injure herself or split;

without fainting, time whispers to us and accumulates in you until it robs us almost completely,

because you give us your body like a bundle of spikes,

the field ripens, the horizon open;

… I hurt you, and, in the avalanche of your hips,

I feel your blood and I kiss it;

nothing, nothing more, partner.


… Black wheat:

if the bitterness of the sun is shelled,

how to live with your back to the stars;

the sand widens and deepens,

and a dark peat soot and rot between the logs;

but how to live with your back to the trees

if loneliness takes over the iris and silence;

… A bull lowers and breaks its horns against the world;

a bull bellows, my friends, and the matador has not come to the fight;

the bull, they say, must die improperly;

… Therefore, how to live, I decided, with this fury and a huge and hysterical plaza.


… When the world is crushed and bursts, and days of clean and clear blue hardly appear;

When everything has been overturned with monstrous power, making machines and bones creak in the smoke,

and nothing and nobody can stop for their blows, their noises, their risks and races,

Ah, then, at seven thirty sharp in the afternoon, and already, from up here, from this burning sand,

my cactus flower, begins to detect your voice, the law of the heart, and then, finally, and down,

that sweet, bold and powerful science, of the irrepressible thirsty flight of your lips.


… I contemplate a red hole in the skies of Spain,

do not be alarmed,

the sun sets;

… by my side, my wife and my daughters,

They make me feel like a powerful rider on the back of a brand new horse,



and no, not only prepared, for dirt and ash tracks.


… All my grandfather’s roses dried up and my father’s roses also faded;

What to do with these roses so that they do not fall to the ground and manure it…!

what sudden glory could contain them in my voice and in the voices,

in the fields that daily die without their roses;

how to ask the dew not to hurt or tremble, if they resist up at night,

throughout an entire sore in the open;

to what test I submit, if, in defense, the muscles of the soul break

and a breeze, like an ax of lesson, steals the purest and whitest petals from me;

… and each time further, further and poorer:

the roses we lost,

the ones that I lose today,


the being that looks at me and holds me.


… oh pain,

if you only knew how you smell of trembling and barren earth;

you will never know how you scourge on this sad, endless and mourning day,

of my swallowed voice, chest inside;

How can you act as a messenger, if I face you and I do not fear you and I shelter you,

to know that I love you in the face of this battle that leads to your presence;

… there are fears and truths that slowly kill, with the smell of oblivion and saltpeter,

throughout this land with a million hearts that beat buried;

… listen, listen pain, now,

that the stars are between my blood and your silence:

You also mock and watch your master, you occupy his faith, you tyrannize him;

your master is poor and I am poor, and this poverty, oh pain,

it unites us in the shipwreck with only this hold of the extremely sweet and barren land;

… It is time for you to leave, look, the afternoon is the exact fire;

So take my presents:

the strength of my arm,

my peace and law,

the life in which you hurt and save me …

… Part, pain, part, that my voice and the sun have set.


… With the distance that separates me from God and my people,

I want to spin my thoughts in the hard stay of tonight;

… my God with so many wings and my people without a feather …!

the night thus becomes an acid perfume where the crickets are silent to immortalize the song;

And I also imagine the sleeping of these few sedentary gulls;

I could go down and feel splashed with them by the sea, everything, everything can be felt in the distance;

… but I am not a seagull, oh God, my God,

I am and am here, among the grass, like the cricket,

and perhaps all the crickets on earth are crying,

perhaps they had for dinner all the silence of tonight,

Maybe the dawn breaks and I find the leaves of the trees fallen

and the dead seagulls, floating in the foam;

and maybe hope no longer wait for tomorrow, maybe, maybe;

… anyway, don’t think, oh God, that reaching you is easy, when it has flown and flown,

and, suddenly, without peace, or stopping, by the wings it bleeds and bleeds, bleeds, bleeds …


… This habit of putting on tomorrow’s shoes makes me rich because I wore espadrilles;

the knot of my tie is the number of this daily circus,

suitable for seniors;

coffee or tea in a cafeteria is the mockery of my little mystique of power;

and in the cinema, the stalls are a parliament of conspiracies;

… oh, I remember now, why not, the sturdy assembly of my classmates,

I remember it now, precisely, when we are all cisco and not redeeming embers

for so cold;

cold in twenty-four round hours, rolling, skinned like a lamb for the benefit of its master;

… my hands are clean, sorry, Lord, no, no, my hands are stiff and shrunken from so many denials;

Sorry, therefore, mother, for arriving at the world at a wrong time,

sorry, oh cursed land for so many blessings,

sorry to you, unconsciousness, for having let me be conscious for a while;

… What can I offer, but white walls for black signs and read them myself;

what an inheritance, oh, God, what an inheritance, that hopelessly,

it will make, in my dynasty, an inhospitable and guilty memory.


… oh, what a return to the din of the terrible, to the storm,

and always, always interfering so that death does not remain alone between the fingers of the dead;

Because what, what do I remember now!

yes, we knew that father was going to die: it was his breath, long-lost truth, song of the last trip,

of last look at sea and love, of last illusion;

… I was going, I was going to die, Father was going to die and I would die, and they told me that, then

– that at that precise moment –

while I was kissing him and dressing him, drowning and falling, I had cried, I had cried;

but, if so, where, where was I;

I have to find myself in that hour, in those hours or days for my dense and resounding accounts …

yes, I, I was defenseless in that space, when all its class became base and uninhabitable…;

And yet these, these are the traces: winter swept away spring,

The roses fell precipitously, and the rivers, overflowing, went out in search of the nomadic petals,

faded, zigzagging and dying in the wind;

… and if everything, everything was eaten by the freezing cold and indifferent,

[my courage, my being of lime and stone, and thus my skies, eager and hard]

all my sickles were reeds and all my faith, an empty glass,

and likewise I was a desert without a sword, without forgetting and crying, and, likewise, an echo without a sea and without shelter;

… where, where was I, absolute defender of lost and round causes,

where was I to break my arms and take them away from my soul,

where, where was I, sweetheart, tell me, tell me, I couldn’t help it …


Ah wind and wind!

voice knife, knife voice, messenger without hands, cross without cross,

and meridian in front of everything true and all fronts;

… come to my mouth

and bursts my soul to remedy my being wanting to be,

bring me tongues to converse with my tongue,

bring me the cough of the world to wipe away this impending drowning,

bring me sands or aromas,

but come to me to make a skein of the use that you expect and expect so much;

… if I am wind and there is wind in my eyes,

If there is a wheel and a war of winds in this errant grub in which I am myself and I go,

make the wind boil my memory, purifying it now from the heavy sleep

of its bubbles;

… The more my breath is created and destroyed,

the more my voice seeks you and you burn it, our embrace becomes more perfect,

more brutal, more subtle through your being made food and expelled into the world

with nerves and main seams of my soul;

… Wall and ivy to pair against the light,

light, shadow and grave along the landscape where the buds suffocate

and life sings and shudders;

… Because here is and I am my wind, wind and wind at all costs;

like a beat from part to part, distorted by that mythical influence of a thousand lives

that did not want to be April flower or chrysalis,

but only and strictly struggle, quarrel and war;

… thus my carriage, and thus, thus this vile metamorphosis:

bites and victories of wind against wandering wind;

… where, where am I going with you, my man,

If this poor silhouette sticks to the ground, like a naked and desolate creature,

without glimpsing paths of mythical arrivals or glories,

if there is only in me – ah, look at me and look at you – exclusively, only and only, wind and wind.

= = =



1 – Ceremonial of Orthodoxy

2 – Of the sons of Cain

3 – Creation

4 – Debate with eternity

5 – Elegy for myself

6 – Judgment

7 – Orion’s disease

8 – Event in the morning

9 – Vertebration

10 – Autumn in the forest

11 – Live War

12 – Character

13 – Meditation

14 – In Praise of Own Discovery

15 – Memory of interactions

16 – Those who sew and sustain my life

17 – Second song for joy

18 – Cold

19 – Ruin

20 – Summer

21 – November

22 – Third song for joy

23 – From the December sun

24 – Contemplation of the port of Santurtzi

25 – Suburbs

26 – Stones


… day by day I got up and touched loneliness and pain, pus, cough

and the mist of the sky;

… and I don’t know if I’m going to die like this,

with this parsimony or moral atony,

with this anonymous lightness with which oblivion flies over love,

or in the face of this banal effort to conquer a cry of conscience

under the liturgical rite of the world;

… this, this has been and is the thirst that dilutes me,

the one that makes me err and err not only through hours and years,

but from this look with which I try to astonish and heal this wound

that only institutes me prostrate and destroyed;

… I die without remedy by design of silence,

subjected to the siege of these few senses that throw me at my temples


… ah, if you perceive that the light lies to you, know and believe that there is another light,

that there is another institution with which to undertake the age of this dominated and civil time,

Believe it openly and deeply;

… today – and what every day –

I will observe myself after this moment of alum and stealth;

it will be an honor to recognize that I live.


… in open battle against dogmas with their iron rings,

I’ll take my fear and my despair

– and the cry of last night –

and I’ll go looking

the light,


I will wrest its power from death,

– the pure roses of our wounded gods –

and I will give you my spirit singing,

and so my bodies and my strength;

… there has been too much opacity, too much trembling

and deeds and exterminations against the gift of the eyes:

that look that protects and saves the being, its ruins and its splendor;

… I have to train myself in this profession of treading a river at every moment,

a break of agony, an invertebrate sea and living;

… These are the heavens that I institute now,

that a blade of grass sets fire in my mouth.


… Poor, naked and blind I arrive and knock on the door of my body;

… and I must not come out of bones and blood,

from between dense mists where my life creaks

and I feel a cry of anguish


…. I enter and, through the dark suburbs in which I live,

I play and drink and my shadows feed me,

my fallen suns, the little strength of being:

the heat that I have;

… more than pain, it is a terrible cold that crosses me;

But I am a man, am I not a man, am I not?

… don’t I rub darkness and darkness and bone against bone

to ignite and build my god and my bonfires even if I have to die?

… because if we are gods, shall I not return and return

to overseed my wheats and design larks and emblems for my soul?

Am I not to wash the shadows and banish this trembling,

this abject and old anxiety with which we men come

to our bastion of earth?

… but, although the body dies and the cold is terrible,

Don’t you see something true in my hands, in my blindness and anguish?

say, say don’t you see any light …?


… here they fight day by day, and minute by minute and member by member dies,

and internally a fire, a creation becomes harm, and freedom,

and knowledge;

[… And inch by inch and fear of fear creaks,

infinity screeches for an instant

and he goes]

… Nobody, nobody knows how these forces generate pain and love,

this emergence of life seeking and anointing us,

resurrecting us …!

… and we emerged,

and it’s a birth to another light, to another new age, and to a silent

– but tense and hard –

pact with death to be able to return.


… I am looking

with the eyes of Orion in its depths

and on his forehead I cause storms of reason and torment,

and symphonies, and cries, conflicts and planetary torrents;

… I have crossed his blood so many times,

that it is difficult to contain sadness

for the wounded wells of his soul;

… I know it gets up

and closes me in the eyes and questions me alone,

and that I am then like a strange lover

next to the terrible blow of his heart;

… I’m a bit of Orion trampling

and in himself hurting;

here, here I am and is: where I hide your thirst with my inhabited thirst.


… the red columns catch fire

and the heart surrenders and disjoins with the dawn

first of his death;

… face to face is the judgment of the light

and blood, and the hours are tested,

the inhabiting forces and the bones;

[… I want to wash the feet of the kingdom,


the really powerful,

those that elevate me above themselves

to set fire and watch my house burn]

… and that’s it,

exhausted with pain, naked and poor,

I summon and invite you to my burned house.


… toda

mi sabiduría


un hombre

celebrando el ser en sus múltiples cuerpos de dolor

y la autoría del tiempo destruyéndolos;

… cuando hallé

las rosas pervertidas

y la luz del Edén aprisionada,

y los huesos, los labios y los gritos duros como el diamante,

fue en mí la enfermedad de Orión:

saber por qué se muere;

… que comiencen ahora las horas,

que alguna vez, del árbol de la ciencia,

podré librar los gritos, los labios y los huesos;

[… ah, me libre Dios, también, de las palomas]


… sean en ti las floraciones de la misericordia y tengas tú,

– y cobijes siempre –

el pan,

la prenda de los dioses,

la resurrección que da la luz;

… la sinfonía

tuya encienda todo y lo amanezca:

la eternidad, el fuego protector,

el agua;

… pues allí, donde las nieblas,

¿ no hicimos de la luz futura la flor de la paciencia ?

¿ no soñábamos esto acaso en la espesura aquélla,

la del arco tan alto ?

… mira en la fragua qué dolor, qué semilla de brasas,

qué llama azul contiene la ambición del cielo,

mírala y contémplala;

porque, si ser de hombre ya no es merma,

¿ quién llegará a las nubes, quién ?

… oh fuerzas,

sacadme esta esperanza a vuelo,

tocad mi sangre, alborotadla, hacedla sutil y dejadla libre,

que, etérea, viva,

que fulja,

que se haga de aire y que busque el aire.


… hoy, sin saberlo, ha venido entre mis ropas el ángel de la muerte;

… saltaron los perros a mi mesa

y mordieron los papales, los teléfonos;

quebraron la luz de la mañana y el rocío, y todo mi universo

– el que acoge y reconforta los goznes de la vida –

cayó sobre sus ejes de náufragos y ángeles;

… cualquier intensidad acerca del dolor

fue cierta y ocurrió temprano, excesivamente pronto:

cuando hombres y relojes sucumben a las horas

y al vuelo incontenible de la libertad.


… anda, hijo,

entra y negocia con la muerte;

… tenemos, hijo, que ganar,

tenemos que adentrarnos, ver dónde se agrietan los puentes de la vida

y saber por qué las fuerzas y las iluminaciones caben todas

en una gota de agua;

… hijo,

tenemos que arrancarle a la muerte un día, un instante, un latido,

construir la luz de un sol y después seguir,

seguir frente a la hoz, frente a la noche espesa y alumbrarnos, vernos,

comprender qué es este ser que está muriéndose

sin más brazos que la amnesia del mundo y la atrocidad

del frío;

… hijo mío, no es fácil, no, y nunca lo será;

pero ten y llévate mis fuerzas:

el fuego de mis brasas y el agua pura de mi corazón.


… tras el vuelo sublime de sus sangres,

el bosque suena herido;

¿ será el rumor de la vida que huye

o el aliento con que brota en las hojas

la luz que queda… ?

¿ también esto es el año… ? ¿ tanto había… ?

… ya veis, me asombra y asusta la belleza porque no la conozco,

¿ cómo, si no, esta extraña forma de aventar la labor del tiempo

y este resplandor que bajo el cielo se abre ?

… pero, a pesar del velo del asombro,

¿ no huele el aire a ternura acaso, a fe, a renovación y a no estar solos ?

… ¿ y no habrá oculto un dios o una alegría extraordinaria, pues que vivo,

y por los hondos atrios de mi alma voy cantando ?


… esta intuición de libertad,

¿ de dónde viene,

quién me la trajo ?

… oh luz, oh llave exacta de mi drama profundo,

descúbreme a la obra de mis inundaciones,

el adecuado rito de tu conocimiento

y tráeme a la fecundidad de mi guerra terrible;

¿ … cómo podré – sino con luz y guerra vivas –

instruir una ley de esperanza,

si la levedad toca al hombre de mi corazón ?

… me encuentro a cada instante con esta ingravidez del vuelo,

con esta inercia pronta a la partida, desmembrado como un viento

de marzo;

… aunque, a pesar de todo,

como si el miedo y la premura pudieran detener mi vida.


… Madre de agua,

no me llames para los claustros, ni para el olvido,

y no, no para herir al viento ni gangrenar la tierra;

… Madre, para la vida, llámame;

por la eternidad – y aunque no tenga nombre – búscame,

que quiero el verdor del aire;

… Padre de fuego,

libértame en tus brasas, en la luz de tu llama déjame prenderme,

que vengo para todas las muertes y resurrecciones;

… los hijos de Caín contamos alma por desastres y auroras por amantes;

es nuestra sed de fuego, la hoguera con la luz y el movimiento,

sueños vivos abriéndoles los cántaros

a las diosas que guardan los óleos sagrados del rocío;

… Padre y Madre, paras las rosas no me neguéis la vida,

y con mis trozos de dios y hombre, mojados y encendidos,

volvedme y rehacedme;

¿ … no veis que tengo el agua y en mi sed la lumbre ?

¿ … no veis que, cual brasa ardiente, se los arrebato al cielo ?

¿ no veis que al asalto entro y de él tomo el Amor ?


… este verano de mis muchas edades, de mis muchas dimensiones,

– y consolador sereno de mi vida –

ha pasado y pasa abriendo remansos e invioladas cancelas,

recintos ya sombríos donde tuve la memoria

una vez tan sólo;


Límite de caracteres: 5000


… all

my wisdom

it is

a man

celebrating the being in its multiple pain bodies

and the authorship of time destroying them;

… when I found

the perverted roses

and the light of Eden imprisoned,

And the bones, the lips and the screams hard as diamond,

Orion’s disease was in me:

know why you die;

… let the hours begin now,

that once, from the tree of knowledge,

I will be able to free the screams, the lips and the bones;

[… ah, God save me, too, from the pigeons]


… be in you the flowers of mercy and have you,

– and always shelter –


the garment of the gods,

the resurrection that gives light;

… The symphony

yours turn on everything and dawn it:

eternity, the protective fire,


… Well there, where the mists,

Didn’t we make the future light the flower of patience?

Didn’t we dream this perhaps in that thicket,

the one with the arch so high?

… look in the forge what pain, what embers seed,

what blue flame contains the ambition of heaven,

look at it and contemplate it;

because, if being a man is no longer a waste,

Who will reach the clouds, who?

… oh forces,

take this hope away from me,

touch my blood, stir it up, make it subtle and set it free,

that, ethereal, alive,

that shines,

let it be made of air and seek air.


… today, without knowing it, the angel of death has come among my clothes;

… the dogs jumped to my table

and they bit the papers, the telephones;

broke the morning light and dew, and my whole universe

– the one who welcomes and comforts the hinges of life –

fell on its axes of castaways and angels;

… any intensity about pain

It was true and it happened early, too early:

when men and watches succumb to the hours

and the unstoppable flight of freedom.


… come on, son,

enter and negotiate with death;

… we have, son, to win,

We have to go inside, see where the bridges of life crack

and know why forces and illuminations all fit

in a drop of water;

… son,

we have to tear from death a day, an instant, a heartbeat,

build the light of a sun and then continue,

continue in front of the sickle, in front of the thick night and enlighten us, see us,

understand what is this being that is dying

with no more arms than the world’s amnesia and atrocity

from the cold;

… my son, it is not easy, no, and it never will be;

but have and take my strength:

the fire of my embers and the pure water of my heart.


… after the sublime flight of their bloods,

the forest sounds hurt;

Is it the rumor of life that flees

or the breath that sprouts on the leaves

the remaining light …?

Is this also the year …? Was there so much…?

… you see, beauty amazes and scares me because I don’t know it,

How else is this strange way of winnowing the labor of time

and this glow that opens under the sky?

… but, despite the veil of wonder,

Doesn’t the air smell of tenderness, of faith, of renewal and of not being alone?

… and is there not hidden a god or an extraordinary joy, since I live,

And through the deep courts of my soul I go singing?


… this intuition of freedom,

Where does it come from,

who brought it to me?

… Oh light, oh exact key of my deep drama,

discover me at the work of my floods,

the proper rite of your knowledge

and bring me to the fruitfulness of my terrible war;

… how can I – but with light and war alive –

instruct a law of hope,

if lightness touches the man of my heart?

… I find myself every moment with this weightlessness of flight,

with this inertia ready to leave, dismembered like a wind

of March;

… although, despite everything,

as if fear and haste could stop my life.


… Mother of water,

do not call me for the cloisters, nor for oblivion,

and no, not to wound the wind or gangrene the earth;

… Mother, for life, call me;

for eternity – and even if I don’t have a name – look for me,

that I want the greenness of the air;

… Father of fire,

set me free in your embers, in the light of your flame let me ignite,

that I come for all deaths and resurrections;

… the sons of Cain count souls for disasters and auroras for lovers;

it is our thirst for fire, the bonfire with light and movement,

living dreams opening the pitchers

to the goddesses who guard the sacred oils of dew;

… Father and Mother, stop the roses, do not deny me life,

and with my pieces of god and man, wet and on fire,

return me and remake me;

… Don’t you see that I have water and fire in my thirst?

… don’t you see that, like a burning ember, I snatch them from the sky?

Don’t you see that I enter the assault and from him I take Love?


… this summer of my many ages, of my many dimensions,

– and serene comforter of my life –

has passed and passes opening backwaters and inviolate gates,

already gloomy enclosures where I had the memory

just once;

… ah, how much estate the light has felled looking for me this afternoon!

[… there is a certain strangeness and distrust towards myself,

subtle rebellions against the age when blush covered age and cherries]

… oh contemplation, oh knowledge, that you descend into the shadows and enchant everything,

oh afternoon with new sun and sparrows that flee like moving boundaries of the soul,

Why are you here and what is the law that this subtle and deep moment, so brief and powerful …?


[… they hurt, they hallucinate for my body

and they glow, vibrate and cry like lovers,

and they fall and burn with the slenderness and dart of unhappiness]

… living, living are the forces that authorize the heart;

… can you hear them, be mine, can you hear them?

… do not open groves and rivers and tenderness

here, under the skin, in the pulses,

Or do they set you on fire and put you out, knocking you to the ground like a painless chill?

… If so, why, why are you trembling?

… show yourself openly as the lord of the world

describing your voice;

… enter, then, in your walls and rains, in the voracious thread of your vines

and screams like a bird-man or bird-woman, but screams and screams until conscious

that heaven fears and loves you; then you will be safe;

… have you understood who you are?


… perhaps this morning of my life, sensual and warm,

tall and clear on the ripe wheat of twilight,

– perhaps, I say –

keep nothing but the brilliance of birds and suns;

… or perhaps, from this moment, there is only one request,

an excited occasion to love,

a hunch in the peace that once holds the heart and devours it;

… and now, deadly and safe,

nothing prevents you from admiring – next to the sun of the pond –

the pool of light and the end of time.


… short and uncertain are my steps:

floor in the shade, in the immensity that the stones give

that live and move,

I go up and down stairs without railing or steps,

I doubt;

… sometimes I fall and, wounded,

I was unconscious [… and resuscitated

it is not easy, who gives light?]

… I have heard it from vagabonds and desert thieves,

to messengers, to owners of snakes and dragons;

… that’s why I’m slow, that’s why I’m looking for help

and I know that a match is great,

that is why it is comfortable to know that you are there, my friends,

those who sew and sustain my life daily.


… and nobody, nobody will ever know what happened

when death passed devastating me, and already, with zeal and excess,

my body was a decrepit iceberg of hollows and silences;

… because I bear my death

down the street

and I cannot fill two cries of sadness;

… even so, far, far away, in my intimate room, I remember the joy:

that sublime power that filled my blood with immortal roses;

… keep it, show it off now, those of you who come with your arms raised.


… at two in the afternoon

the fog harasses me brutally, hits me,

freezes me;

… I try to resist it by covering my head

and the eyes:

the embers with which I live;

… today the angels will not come out of heaven

neither will the sun, the mosses, nor the song of the magpie thrive;

… nothing and nobody wants to go out in the open

and die;

it’s cold, very cold.


… when I sensed the light, when I sensed it and wanted it,

well I thought it could consist of going, looking at her

and receive it, and already, full of power and in its virtue safe,

enjoy and have eternity resolved and redeemed;

… but nobody, nobody has seen my desolate valleys,

my house, my life outfit

falling down, undressing in the cold

of deep nights or under pale sunrises

and stiff as death!

… and if the ruin has been great

– and the pain has been-

a heat, a new and warm air arrived

under an incipient and yet progressive, serene and clean sad moon;

… I’ll keep these things in case ruin returns.


… I have waited for you for the nights of August,

when the moon lights the vineyards of the sky

and the celestial grapes sparkle and dance;

when Eolo dips the station in fragrances

and the paths are drunk with blackberries and thyme;

… I have waited for you at the fire of the red apples,

when fig trees brim with sugars and nectars

that cracked figs with delight ooze;

… I desperately waited for you until the end,

when August was filled with gleams and udders

and in her veins she kept the highest honeycomb:

this drunkenness, throbbing and full, with its divine hours.


… I always wanted to start in this November light,

feel the warm air flow through the rockrose,

decipher the conscience of the year, that of brevity,

know how the color catches fire and how it has been and is

that suddenly the shadow does not exist, nor hunger, nor fear,

but yes november passing, slipping serene

its embers of fire, its ambrosia of herbs and water,

the indescribable of the world, the flight of the sun, contemplation …


… if with the grating of blood and the plow of fire

will reach the heart

y surcando en sus tierras cultivar la alegría !

… y si después hubiese fiesta

y un viento jubiloso derramase en las calles

este hallazgo mío – la dicha del hombre,

la vida sola – ¿ quién no viviría ?

¿ quién no saldría a buscar oro puro y, encontrándolo,

no hollaría su propio corazón para seguir viviendo,

¿ quién, quién  no ?


… aquí no me toquéis;


aquí no;

… bajo el son del mundo dejadme este verdor crecer

y que siga la sal, y la tarde;

… no, aquí no me toquéis, que tengo que aguardar a la flor

del almendro;

… para ser de manzana no hacen falta diciembres,

ni martirios, ni borrascas, ni altares;

… ser de hombre,

– ay de mí –

significa que he de hallar la fuente,

y, bebiendo, acallar los rumores del agua y de la luz que persigo;

… no, no;

aquí no me toquéis.



… ya es diciembre; pero esta mañana azul y cálida,

cubierta de gorriones y gaviotas, se detiene en el puerto inusitadamente;

como si este armazón de muelles y grúas, de barcos y graneles,

la hubiera prendado, y ya, suelta y libre, fuera del tiempo,

anduviera de acá para allá no de fiesta, sino de luz, de consuelo y brazo

para la vida;

… yo, desde aquí, tras los cristales,

la estoy mirando como quien descubre la inmensidad

y queda desamparado y roto por su pequeñez;

[la alegría del ser y su alucinación primera,

la increíble sorpresa de su descubrimiento]

… pero a pesar de todo, y aunque la mañana exista y alumbre

tanto cielo y cubra los muelles, mi ventana y el mar,

yo sé que estoy aquí, detrás, sintiéndola, con un leve temblor

por poder mirar y saberme vivo.


¡ … ayudadnos, ayudadnos, hermanos !

… cantad para que la tos no nos mate,

para que nos vuelva a llover pronto

y nos mane el agua en la peña el año que viene;

… hermanos, aquí no hay poder, ni dinero,

aquí hay hombres y mujeres de paro y de subsidio,

de corazón blanco y corazón negro,

aquí está la luz dura, la que vais dejando para nosotros,

los esclavos de la ley y la guerra;

¿ … recordáis Ruanda y Sbrénica y Darfur ahora ? no, los habéis olvidado;

de igual modo nosotros seguiremos aquí, bajo estos tenderetes

implorando auxilios, y siendo extraños y tosiendo siempre,

y, ello, aunque muramos secos o desesperados y todos los días;

lo sé, pues continuará ocurriendo aunque cantéis, y la tos, subsidiada y mártir,

de repente nos deje; aun entonces, seguiremos muriendo sin cesar;

… pero a pesar de todo, cantad hermanos, cantad todos los días,

cantad, por favor, cantad; no, no dejéis de hacerlo.


… las piedras de hombre son duras;

no alces la voz, observa y calla,

dale al cincel, camina;

… la luz no viene sola,

no entra por puertas cerradas

no llora;

… la luz se interioriza, piensa,

se levanta y ocasiona otra luz,


… pero estas piedras que gritan

y son piedras ¿ cómo lustrarlas y verlas

claras como el diamante,

o cómo abrirlas y no caerse

por los chorros de luz que las diluye ?

¿ … pero sobre todo, cómo, cómo ser de hombre luego

para seguir ?

= = =


  1 – Aprehensión de la libertad

        o tesis de la infinita muerte

  2 – Niños de la historia blanca

  3 – Rebato

  4 – Breve tratado acerca de los dioses

  5 – Libre

  6 –La muerte de las palomas

  7 – Después de todo

  8 – Rememorar y restañar las cosas

  9 – Alegato contra las cárceles  terrestres

10 – Discurso íntimo para mi padre

11 – Ordenar la mañana

12 – Cualidad de fuego

13 – Crónica de la propia guerra

14 – Ya somos otros

15 – Rosas de agosto

16 – El compromiso

17 – Desolación en la casa de aire

18 – Tierra abandonada

19 – Racionalización de la alegría

20 – Los días breves de la vida breve

21 – Viejas  estaciones

22 – Acontecer



… puesto que he de abatir inexpugnables presidios de antiquísimos órdenes,

y el pus – secta o hez de mi pensamiento –

necesito abrir, escuchar y saber con qué imposturas me deleita la sangre,

y con qué ilusión y adornos me oprimen sus anillos;

… hombres y mujeres extraños entran y salen de mi corazón,

y extrañas mariposas, unicornios y ángeles golpean,

sacian su sed con tiempo muerto, con espantos de amor, con vísceras de un ser que ya no crece;

… todas las revoluciones, estragos y ordalías llegaron a mis puertas

y entraron en mis  mundos,

y hoy debo trascender el mar, ungirlo con rocío

e instar mis continentes hacia el verdor del aire;

… a  partir de hoy, y aunque duela saberlo, correré el riesgo de morir y dar mi vida,

  callada y conscientemente –

por intentar labrar e instituir la luz.


… y allí estábamos, como rosas tardías o pájaros varados en un cielo escondido;

… mientras era el silencio nos cayeron las lunas, la luz, el movimiento,

roto todo, ay memoria, mientras pegaba y golpeaba la belleza caída,

vertiendo la ilusión tan joven, o no tan joven, por el uso y abuso de la muerte;


Límite de caracteres: 5000

and furrowing their lands cultivate joy!

… and if there was a party later

and a joyous wind spilled in the streets

this find of mine – the bliss of man,

life alone – who wouldn’t live?

Who would not go out to look for pure gold and, finding it,

he would not tread his own heart to continue living,

Who, who doesn’t?


… Here don’t touch me;


not here;

… under the sound of the world let me grow this green

and let the salt follow, and the afternoon;

… no, don’t touch me here, I have to wait for the flower

of the almond tree;

… to be apple you don’t need December,

no martyrdoms, no storms, no altars;

… be a man,

– Oh my –

It means that I have to find the source

and, drinking, silence the rumors of the water and the light that I pursue;

… nerd;

don’t touch me here.



… it’s already December; But this warm blue morning

covered with sparrows and seagulls, it stops at the port unusually;

as if this framework of docks and cranes, of ships and bulk,

I would have caught her, and now, loose and free, out of time,

I walked from here to there not in celebration, but in light, comfort and arm

for life;

… I, from here, behind the windows,

I’m looking at her like someone who discovers the immensity

and is left helpless and broken by its smallness;

[the joy of being and its first hallucination,

the incredible surprise of its discovery]

… but despite everything, and although the morning exists and shines

so much sky and cover the docks, my window and the sea,

I know that I am here, behind, feeling it, with a slight tremor

for being able to look and know I am alive.


… help us, help us, brothers!

… sing so that the cough does not kill us,

so that it rains again soon

and we will manage the water in the rock next year;

… brothers, here there is no power, no money,

here are unemployed and subsidized men and women,

with a white heart and a black heart,

here is the hard light, the one that you are leaving for us,

the slaves of law and war;

… Do you remember Rwanda and Sbrénica and Darfur now? no, you have forgotten them;

in the same way we will continue here, under these stalls

begging for help, and being strange and always coughing,

and, this, even if we die dry or desperate and every day;

I know, because it will continue to happen even if you sing, and the cough, subsidized and martyr,

suddenly leave us; even then, we will continue dying without ceasing;

… but despite everything, sing brothers, sing every day,

sing, please sing; no, don’t stop doing it.


… The stones of man are hard;

don’t raise your voice, watch and shut up,

hit the chisel, walk;

… the light does not come alone,

does not enter through closed doors

does not cry;

… the light is internalized, he thinks,

rises and causes another light,


… but these stones that scream

and they are stones, how to polish them and see them

clear as diamond,

or how to open them and not fall

by the jets of light that dilutes them?

… but above all, how, how to be a man later

to follow ?

= = =


  1 – Apprehension of freedom

        or thesis of infinite death

  2 – Children of White History

  3 – Rebato

  4 – Brief treatise on the gods

  5 – Free

  6 – The death of the pigeons

  7 – After all

  8 – Recall and restore things

  9 – Argument against land prisons

10 – Intimate speech for my father

11 – Sort the morning

12 – Quality of fire

13 – Chronicle of the war itself

14 – We are already others

August 15 – Roses

16 – Commitment

17 – Desolation in the Air House

18 – Abandoned Land

19 – Rationalization of joy

20 – The short days of the short life

21 – Old Stations

22 – Happen



… since I have to strike down impregnable prisons of ancient orders,

and the pus – sect or dregs of my thought –

I need to open, listen and know with what impostures the blood delights me,

and with what illusion and ornaments his rings oppress me;

… strange men and women enter and leave my heart,

and strange butterflies, unicorns and angels beat,

they quench their thirst with dead time, with terrors of love, with the viscera of a being that no longer grows;

… all revolutions, ravages and ordeals came to my doorstep

and they entered my worlds,

and today I must transcend the sea, anoint it with dew

and urge my continents towards the greenery of the air;

… from today, and even if it hurts to know, I will risk dying and giving my life,

– quietly and consciously –

for trying to carve and institute light.


… And there we were, like late roses or birds stranded in a hidden sky;

… while it was silence, the moons fell on us, the light, the movement,

broken everything, oh memory, while hitting and hitting the fallen beauty,

pouring out the illusion so young, or not so young, by the use and abuse of death;

… si alguien vio vadear las cegueras del alba, si alguien vio cómo fueron las navajas

del hambre, los témpanos del miedo, ah, si alguien los vio, sabe bien del amor,

pues que el dolor se acaba amando – ah desgracia infinita – aunque torne amargos

los panes reverentes;

… fue en el pueblo y en la ciudad de piedra, en los presbiterios sacros de los credos civiles,

fue donde sólo hijos-súbditos hubo, hijos yermos, desvertebrados hijos, hijos tristes;

… éramos madreselvas-niño o niños-madreselva pálidos por el sur de las tardes,

tras una iniciación tan épica en las toses y gritos,

en los estremecidos vendavales del corazón;

… los niños de la historia blanca, ah, bien lo recuerdo,

jugábamos en las venas rojas del río y allí nos descubrían,

combatiendo la noche con la sangre furtiva de una hoguera.


… siguiendo el curso de los acontecimientos,

ayer mismo éramos muchos los que irremediablemente íbamos a morir,

los que con la mañana, las horas y el sol hechos pedazos,

– y llenos de agujeros –

como tributo de pago inexorable íbamos a caer sobre el asfalto

y a ser pisados por los viandantes, a pasarnos los autos por encima,

y a ser cubiertos de tiempo, de dióxido y  noches monótonas de hielo y lluvia;

… pero estamos aquí, quizá solos o con el miedo creándonos aún escalofríos,

pero al fin reales como piedras, vertebrados en mujeres y hombres nuevos,

hondos, puros y nítidos cual sacramentos vivos;

ved cómo la vida nos tocó a rebato en su última noche, cómo resistió la lucha

hasta hallar el río de la madrugada y nos trajo a salvo aquí, a este instante

más fuerte que el asfalto, más fuerte que la furia del dolor y el destino,

pero más, más frágil que la luz, la luz que había.


… también, también los dioses se equivocan;

por muy dentro, por muy hondo que vivan,

los siento llorar, brillar y gemir entre luces fugaces por mis barros oscuros,

o tapiar con olvidos y arcillas definitivamente los boquetes

que van dejando al desaparecer;

… y también ellos se cansan, y salen al atardecer conmigo

a entibar la noche íntima, a estremecerse, a recoger dos estrellas del cielo

para luego toser un poco y regresar a casa;

… a veces, en silencio, hombres y dioses cansados nos encontramos en el portal

y subimos en el ascensor como refundados, como solidarios;

… al final, cuando es así, hay unánime mesura en nuestras breves

y simples despedidas: todos nos vamos y nadie tira piedras.


… los dogmas,

  credos o anillos de dioses o de hombres –

alambraron y atajaron mis manos y mi alma, y mis ojos y labios con tumbas,

con sierpes, con terrores;

[y también con fuegos, y palabras, con duras, con eternas y terribles palabras]

… siembra de libertad yo,

que atravesaré los ríos, que incendiaré con vida sus orillas

y arderé con ellos dentro;

que torrente incendiado y cual son de espíritu bajaré a la oscuridad,

y cogiendo la espada de amor y a tajos intentaré romper mis nudos de hombre:

los de las manos,

los de los ojos y labios

y los de acero del corazón…;

– – – – –

– – – – –

¡… ah, no !

yo no podía ser frente a mi ser otro bastión íntimo y civil sino la guerra;

[hasta mi muerte, la real e irreal,

hasta que cunda, por mi mente y cuerpos, ese extraño y vivo honor de los contextos míticos, auténticos y libres:

el de hombres que luchan, y que mueren y mueren, por pretender vivir]


… si pudiera llevar hasta la puerta de mis amigos agua viva,

– la que recojo de la muerte de las palomas –

y entrar en la ciudad no pregonándola, sino a solas y contra los muros del corazón,

mis amigos ¿ no saldrían a combatir la muerte ?

… y, si aun resucitadas las palomas y ardiendo luminosas en sus manos,

no llenaran los ojos con su luz quemante,

¿ qué valdría su muerte, qué valdría ?

… pero mi ciudad no tiene nombre ni plazas de mercado, ni templos,

ni tampoco monolitos ni atalayas de metal ni de piedra;

por tanto, y siendo así ¿a dónde, a dónde dirigirme entonces ?


… no sé cómo pude coger y acallar los gritos de la sangre,

ni tampoco cómo el resplandor, la pasión, el canto;

tras someter mis fuerzas a tan enorme silencio y observarlas tensándome la piel,

no sé cómo, irreductiblemente, digo, me situé frente a ellas

porque quería sentirme hollando los agraces dominios de la vida y de la muerte;

… mas no sé si tanta juventud ha sido sin más sacrificada ni cuánto hombre

logré esconder como un río;

en realidad, buscándome, no acabo de acabarme,

ah, pues nunca, jamás he terminado de explorar la extensión herida del agua;

… convendría que hallara ahora algún cariño mirando estos cobijos donde ser y hombre quedan,

donde con esfuerzo van surgiendo las brasas y el hollín, las flores,

el viento helado y los amigos;

convendría, convendría saber si las ollas que ocultas guardo son cuencos de rosas;

… si así fuera, convendría, pues, encenderlas y lograr que, sus fuegos,

me prendieran las manos y el corazón.


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… if someone saw the blinds of dawn wade, if someone saw how the razors were

of hunger, the icebergs of fear, ah, if someone saw them, they know well about love,

Well, pain ends up loving – ah infinite misfortune – even if it turns bitter

the reverent loaves;

… it was in the town and in the city of stone, in the sacred presbyteries of the civil creeds,

It was where only children-subjects there were, barren children, disvertebrate children, sad children;

… we were honeysuckle-child or child-honeysuckle pale in the southern afternoons,

after such an epic initiation into coughing and screaming,

in the shaking gales of the heart;

… the children of white history, ah, I remember well,

we played in the red veins of the river and there they discovered us,

fighting the night with the furtive blood of a bonfire.


… following the course of events,

Just yesterday there were many of us who were going to die inevitably,

those who with the morning, the hours and the sun in pieces,

– and full of holes –

as an inexorable payment tribute we were going to fall on the asphalt

and to be stepped on by pedestrians, to pass the cars over,

and to be covered with weather, with dioxide and monotonous nights of ice and rain;

… but we are here, perhaps alone or with fear still creating chills,

but at last real as stones, vertebrates in new men and women,

deep, pure and clear as living sacraments;

see how life touched us on its last night, how it resisted the fight

until I found the river at dawn and brought us safely here, at this moment

stronger than the asphalt, stronger than the fury of pain and destiny,

but more, more fragile than the light, the light there was.


… also, the gods are also wrong;

deep inside, no matter how deep they live,

I feel them cry, shine and moan between fleeting lights through my dark pimples,

or to plug the gaps with oblivions and clays definitely

that they leave when they disappear;

… and they too get tired, and go out at sunset with me

to warm the intimate night, to shudder, to pick up two stars from the sky

to then cough a little and go home;

… sometimes, in silence, weary men and gods meet in the portal

and we went up in the elevator as re-founded, as solidarity;

… in the end, when this is the case, there is unanimous restraint in our brief

and simple farewells: we all leave and no one throws stones.


… the dogmas,

– creeds or rings of gods or men –

they wired and cut off my hands and my soul, and my eyes and lips with graves,

with serpents, with terrors;

[and also with fires, and words, with harsh, with eternal and terrible words]

… I sow freedom,

that I will cross the rivers, that I will burn their shores with life

and I will burn with them inside;

What a torrent on fire and what are of spirit I will go down to darkness,

and taking the sword of love and slashing I will try to break my man knots:

those of the hands,

those of the eyes and lips

and the steel of the heart…;

– – – – –

– – – – –

… Oh no !

I could not be in front of my being another intimate and civil bastion but the war;

[until my death, the real and unreal,

until that strange and living honor of mythical, authentic and free contexts spreads through my mind and bodies:

that of men who fight, and who die and die, for pretending to live]


… if I could bring living water to the door of my friends,

– the one I collect from the death of pigeons –

and enter the city not proclaiming it, but alone and against the walls of the heart,

my friends, won’t they go out to fight death?

… and, if the doves are still resurrected and burning bright in their hands,

will not fill the eyes with their burning light,

What would her death be worth, what would it be worth?

… but my city has no name, no market squares, no temples,

neither monoliths nor watchtowers of metal or stone;

Therefore, and if so, where, where to go then?


… I don’t know how I could catch and silence the cries of blood,

nor how the radiance, the passion, the song;

after submitting my forces to such enormous silence and observing them tightening my skin,

I don’t know how, irreducibly, I say, I stood in front of them

because I wanted to feel myself treading on the barren realms of life and death;

… but I do not know if so much youth has been without more sacrificed or how much man

I managed to hide like a river;

In reality, looking for me, I have not just finished,

ah, well, I’ve never, ever finished exploring the wounded expanse of the water;

… it would be convenient for me to find now some love looking at these shelters where being and man remain,

where with effort the embers and soot, flowers,

the icy wind and friends;

It would be convenient, it would be convenient to know if the pots that I keep hidden are bowls of roses;

… if this were the case, then it would be convenient to light them and achieve that their fires

they caught my hands and my heart.


… amigos míos, si no tragáis carros y carretas y no vivís el dolor y revolución del corazón y la razón,

si no sentís pasar el tiempo y la desgracia y los resistís como a la muerte

e ignoráis al final que ya no sois quienes erais…

entonces ¿ de qué estamos hablando, de qué albor, de qué fragancia,

decidme, de qué tiempo o alegría ?

… porque hace poco ruido la sabiduría al tocarnos:

su canto es hondo y sólo en silencio abrigan sus pasos y sus lumbres;

… amigos, no creáis, pues, en historias de desaparecidos,

no en la luz aparente ni en la paz aparente;

he de deciros que no hay atajos ni atraques imprevistos,

y que nunca ha habido mayor insidia que el don sin más de deudas abolidas;

… ineludiblemente habremos de entrar y asumir cada horror y desastre,

y luego, para poder vivir, abrir el corazón, rememorar y restañar las cosas.


¡ … oh cárceles, oh cárceles !

cómo instruir y armonizar el ser con venganza o miedo,

cómo con ira, o cómo con placer sobre un mar-hombre repleto de ansiedad, enigmas y tristeza !

… vamos, venid, compañeros, entrad al corazón y escuchad la alegría que instruye la piedad,

porque quién, quién no ha de cantar abriendo el alma junto al torno rugiente de las cárceles;

[… ya hemos puesto en su luz la luz del tiempo,

y ya, ya es la hora del hombre,

pues duelen la mejilla escondida, la verdad turbada y el muro alto, profunda e intensamente duelen]

… oh cárceles, cárceles, hospitales de hombres-dioses os nazcan dentro

y que vuestros caminos desaparezcan por siempre de ciudades y páramos,

de la región del odio y del arcaico sueño de la sangre;

“… como los muros de Jericó, inclinaos y veníos abajo”,

clamo y pido ahora ante un firmamento atormentado y vivo;

[con la voz del mundo, con la razón y fe de esta edad que no debe morir sin el fulgor de sus tímidas,

pero ciertas y concretas luces]

… deteneos, pues, y caed por amor, rotundamente hacedlo como lo harán las fronteras, las lenguas,

los pasmos del color y el rictus delictivo de la muerte;

ah oscuridades ancestrales del hombre,

fungíos sin miedo y desapareced, caed, caed por Dios, y sucumbid conmigo.


… tu cuerpo, padre, es una piedra en el campo aquél, detrás del río;

no sé aún cómo llegó allí,

no sé;

… después de tantos años acarreando soles y lunas,

aupando de la tierra las terribles lágrimas que produce la oscuridad,

no tuve, padre, un rato de juventud con que pronunciar y estrechar con pasión tu nombre;

yo no sabía que un muchacho con el cuerpo de mimbre tenía que parar,

hablar con su padre y darle forma,


… y ahora ¿ cómo llegar a ti ?

¿ cómo sacar constelaciones y lumbres vivas del corazón y tocar tus manos y que lo sepas ?

… este oficio de vivir no nos dio para mucho;

pero, al menos, nos queda esta prenda serena de dolor,

la que acompaña siempre a los silencios duros y graves,

como el que ahora afronto, como el que ahora vivo.


… de las cosas que instituyen mi vida,

este esplendor de sentir mi cuerpo y ver la luz y ordenar la mañana,

es la dicha luminosa de un instante hermoso,

veloz e inesperado;

… este instante me crea, me eleva los ojos desde mi propio dolor y la fugacidad que soy,

a otro instante de acendrado consuelo que me hacer ver,

sentir alrededor de mi estancia a mis vecinos de toda la vida,

y esa paz profunda, la que nunca viene de las solemnidades;

… porque, si es legítimo estar en las glorias del dios y en la luz del deseo,

yo estoy aquí y soy un hombre,

y estoy buscando cómo ejercer este oficio mío, pequeño y desolado;

… miro, y no estoy solo.


… recuerdo que era hombre porque fui un muchacho al que una niña de lumbre le abrasó la boca;

porque ardían los huertos de mimbres y cerezas cuando abrí los volcanes del mundo

y en mi alma produje tempestades de fuego;

… recuerdo que fui hombre porque quería vivir y coger la lluvia, prenderla,

y aspirar cada gota con su luz incendiada;

y porque, asombrado, y al cruzar la aurora con un resplandor de llama pura,

dije que todo habría de hacerlo con fuegos libres y brasas transparentes;

… recuerdo que fui hombre porque a esas horas los autos corren mucho

y va la sangre cantando, y uno se para donde sea para morirse un rato y resucitar a trozos,

o a tiras de piel, o para coger la eternidad y tirarla a un lado,

rodando en un bar o en la cuneta;

… recuerdo, recuerdo que fui hombre porque tengo las huellas de la alegría

y nada se quema impunemente,

y porque siento, vivo y guardo su imborrable secreto, entre el calor de los huesos.


… porque esta guerra íntima y dura,

la que corre ardiendo y destruyendo los presentes goznes de mi vida,

¿ podré ganarla ?

… tan desposeído deja el dolor,

tan frágil y solo, tan sin nombre,

que a veces llega a seducirnos el halo de la muerte

bajo el peso mortal del desconsuelo;


Límite de caracteres: 5000


… my friends, if you do not swallow carts and wagons and do not live the pain and revolution of the heart and reason,

if you do not feel time and misfortune pass by and resist them like death

and you ignore in the end that you are no longer who you were …

So what are we talking about, what dawn, what fragrance,

tell me, of what time or joy?

… Because wisdom makes little noise when it touches us:

their song is deep and only in silence do their steps and their lights shelter;

… friends, do not believe, then, in stories of the disappeared,

not in apparent light or apparent peace;

I have to tell you that there are no shortcuts or unexpected berths,

and that there has never been a greater deceit than the gift without more debts abolished;

… inescapably we will have to enter and assume every horror and disaster,

and then, to be able to live, to open the heart, to remember and to restore things.


… Oh jails, oh jails!

how to instruct and harmonize being with revenge or fear,

how with anger, or how with pleasure on a sea-man full of anxiety, enigmas and sadness!

… come on, come, companions, enter the heart and listen to the joy that piety teaches,

because who, who does not have to sing opening the soul next to the roaring vat of the prisons;

[… we have already put the light of time in its light,

and now, it is the hour of man,

because the hidden cheek hurts, the troubled truth and the high wall hurt deeply and intensely]

… Oh prisons, prisons, hospitals of men-gods be born within

and may your roads disappear forever from cities and wastelands,

from the region of hatred and the archaic dream of blood;

«… like the walls of Jericho, bow down and come down»,

I cry out and ask now before a tormented and living firmament;

[with the voice of the world, with the reason and faith of this age that should not die without the brightness of its timid ones,

but certain and concrete lights]

… Stop, then, and fall for love, do it completely as borders, languages ​​will,

the freaks of color and the criminal face of death;

ah ancestral darkness of man,

Fear without fear and disappear, fall, fall for God, and succumb to me.


… your body, father, is a stone in that field, behind the river;

I don’t know yet how it got there

I dont know;

… after so many years carrying suns and moons,

lifting from the earth the terrible tears that darkness produces,

I did not have, father, a moment of youth with which to pronounce and passionately embrace your name;

I didn’t know that a boy with a wicker body had to stop,

talk to his father and give him shape,

create it;

… and now how to get to you?

How to get constellations and living lights from the heart and touch your hands and let you know it?

… this profession of living did not give us much;

but at least we have this serene garment of pain,

the one that always accompanies hard and serious silences,

Like the one I now face, like the one I now live.


… of the things that institute my life,

this splendor of feeling my body and seeing the light and ordering the morning,

it is the luminous bliss of a beautiful moment,

fast and unexpected;

… this moment creates me, raises my eyes from my own pain and the fleetingness that I am,

to another moment of pure consolation that makes me see,

feel my lifelong neighbors around my stay,

and that deep peace, the one that never comes from solemnities;

… Because, if it is legitimate to be in the glories of God and in the light of desire,

I am here and I am a man,

and I am looking for how to exercise this office of mine, small and desolate;

… I look, and I’m not alone.


… I remember I was a man because I was a boy whose mouth was burned by a fire girl;

because the wicker and cherry orchards burned when I opened the volcanoes of the world

and in my soul I produced storms of fire;

… I remember that I was a man because I wanted to live and catch the rain, turn it on,

and breathe in each drop with its burning light;

And because, amazed, and crossing the dawn with a blaze of pure flame,

I said that everything would have to be done with free fires and transparent embers;

… I remember that I was a man because at that time the cars run a lot

and the blood goes singing, and one stops anywhere to die for a while and resurrect in pieces,

or to strips of skin, or to take eternity and throw it aside,

rolling in a bar or in the gutter;

… I remember, I remember that I was a man because I have the traces of joy

and nothing burns with impunity,

and because I feel, live and keep its indelible secret, between the heat of the bones.


… because this intimate and hard war,

the one that runs burning and destroying the present hinges of my life,

Can i win it?

… so dispossessed leaves the pain,

so fragile and alone, so nameless,

that sometimes the halo of death seduces us

under the deadly weight of grief;

… entonces ¿ en qué río, en qué luz encontraré el sostén

que necesito, el que pueda darme esa brizna de aire,

ese verdor primero con que asir la esperanza ?

… sin remedio he de bajar la voz para juntar los huesos con los huesos y quedar aquí, escuchando,

intentando alzarme contra el ojo gris de un silencio sideral y enorme.


… está yéndose el verano;

hay como un desvanecimiento, una sensación como de aire roto y brillos fríos,

como si de acá para allá convocasen las cosas a un rictus de acendrada y expectante tristeza;

…. y, sin embargo, todo está lleno y reposa,

o cruza cansinamente como buey que albergara los esfuerzos del mundo para volver a casa;

… ya, ya somos otros;

ya vibró en la sangre la alondra al mediodía

y ya, la enredadera, con sus hojas de estaño,

nos agrieta la sombra y toca el hombro;

… y el corazón lo sabe y tiembla,

por lo que inconscientemente va recogiendo sin orden sus pequeños enseres:

las fuentes, las profundas sequías,

la hiel,

la voz,

la pasión total,

la muerte;

… bandadas de gorriones pasan.


[… en mi casa de Vecilla de la Polvorosa;

en ella, con cariño]

… esto que estoy mirando es la casa de mi niñez;

[… bien adentro, escuchando, se oyen melodías que viajan

de un lado a otro reverberando y tocando las cosas,

acercándolas, descubriendo su rostro que fue, por un instante]

… éramos muchos en los días hermanos de los días

y mucha la labor, y el bálago, las vueltas de trillo y la nieve en diciembre;

vivíamos aquí, y en torno de la mesa, en el cuarto aquél, nos reuníamos;

… y qué cosas pasan;

inexorablemente sobreviene la ruina

y el polvo se acumula; como  la razón, si es que llega a comprenderse

alguna vez este quebrar, este despiece, esta desolación

que a jirones se agolpa y tunde la memoria;

… ríos de vida me devuelven seres y años con que fui feliz

y los mismos ríos me los llevan;

acuden gorriones al declinar la tarde, y, al ensombrecerse el patio, ensombrecen las rosas;

… pienso en ellas, y ya no puedo verlas.


… nadie me resucitará porque tengo el compromiso

de no perder la aurora ni de cesar de correr por el filo de todos los tiempos,

coger un instante vivo

y una

y otra vez,

seguir resucitando, instituyendo un alma/lumbre con mis briznas de hierba y agua;

… sé, sé que he de afrontar la inevitable pérdida de los días hermosos,

cuando acabe y viva a mi hombre de angustia y dentro resista

los pasos terribles del dolor y las horas;

… porque después de todo, lo sepamos o no, qué grande es el esfuerzo

por entibar las cosas que con su ser de agua y fuego nos salvan y sostienen;

… indudablemente es pasmoso y es heroico vivir.


¿ … qué o quién derriba mi casa ?

¿ cómo este viento, este arrebato o temblor que todo lo asuela y hiela como por dentro ?

¿ qué está pasando, que toco el corazón y lo paro como si fuera un río sin calor

y las auroras sufren miedo no sólo a despuntar,

sino también a ser y a diluirse aun ?

… necesariamente he de entrar en mi laberinto y urgir y convocar mis luces, mis espantos y fríos,

pasar por los hondones del umbral que guardo y seguir y seguir,

hasta lograr volver con el bálsamo que alivie las hondas cicatrices de mi alma;

… ah, si un atisbo de luz cayera en mi mano,

ah, si pudiera crecerlo y llenar con él los terribles huecos que va dejando la desolación…

… porque si con una gota de lluvia pudiera redimir el mar y oírme y saber qué ocurre allí,

– donde no puedo entrar –

¿ no lo haría ?

¿ no incendiaría el sol que se me apaga,

y herido por vivir no pararía las horas y rompería los sellos terrestres de la vida hasta hallarla ?

… fuerzas de mi alma ¿ puedo romperlos ?


… y no, ya nadie vendrá aquí, nadie más pasará las tardes al sol de los otoños

ni reparará el estropicio del tiempo y del silencio, nadie,

ni nadie recordará que ahí mismo, bajo los ciruelos y los sauces,

engendré a mi hijo;

… el viento pasará ululando en invierno, y hasta los lobos, las cornejas y las nieblas,

pasarán heridos de soledad e irán muy lejos,

pues temerán el encuentro con la inmensa angustia que exhalan las piedras rotas,

las puertas, los aleros caídos, la tierra hostil y abandonada;

nadie encontrará la huella del almendro,

nadie el mar,

nadie una senda,

nadie una cruz ni una luz;

… y si este daño ingente resulta en el pecho, sin más, irreparable,

una llaga de amor, atroz y revivida, empuña su dolor y arrasa las palabras.


… acostumbra el dolor;

llega la alegría y la estoy recibiendo con los labios temblando,

como si el cuerpo extrañara, como si la costumbre del dolor

hubiese obviado la irrupción de sucesos hermosos;

… es así que la alegría casi duele, pues con furia se aprieta contra el pecho para hacerse sentir,

para ser reconocida y asumida y de esta forma pronunciarse;

… y son tan pocas las gotas de rocío vivo que van apareciendo en la aridez que soy,


Límite de caracteres: 5000

… then in what river, in what light will I find the support

that I need, the one who can give me that blade of air,

that greenery first with which to grasp hope?

… without remedy I have to lower my voice to join bones with bones and stay here, listening,

trying to lift myself up against the gray eye of a huge, sidereal silence.


… summer is leaving;

There’s like a fading, a sensation like broken air and cold glows

as if from here to there they summoned things to a rictus of steely and expectant sadness;

… and yet everything is full and rests,

or cross wearily like an ox that shelters the world’s efforts to return home;

… already, we are already others;

the lark already vibrated in the blood at noon

and now, the creeper, with its tin leaves,

the shadow cracks us and touches the shoulder;

… and the heart knows it and trembles,

so he unconsciously collects his small belongings without order:

the sources, the deep droughts,

the gall,

the voice,

total passion,


… flocks of sparrows pass by.


[… In my house in Vecilla de la Polvorosa;

in her, with love]

… what I am looking at is the house of my childhood;

[ … deep inside, listening, traveling melodies are heard

back and forth reverberating and touching things,

bringing them closer, discovering her face that was, for an instant]

… we were many in the brother days of the days

and a lot of work, and thatch, threshing turns and snow in December;

We lived here, and around the table, in that room, we met;

… and what things happen;

ruin inexorably ensues

and the dust accumulates; as reason, if it is ever understood

is this breaking, this dismantling, this desolation

that to shreds the memory crowds and scatters;

… rivers of life give me back beings and years with which I was happy

and the same rivers carry them to me;

Sparrows flock in the late afternoon, and as the courtyard darkens, the roses darken;

… I think about them, and I can’t see them anymore.


… no one will resurrect me because I have the commitment

not to lose the dawn nor to stop running along the edge of all time,

take a moment alive

and one

and again,

continue resurrecting, instituting a soul / fire with my blades of grass and water;

… I know, I know that I have to face the inevitable loss of beautiful days,

When I finish and live my man of anguish and inside I resist

the terrible steps of pain and hours;

… because after all, whether we know it or not, how great the effort is

for warming up the things that save and sustain us with their being of water and fire;

… it is undoubtedly awesome and heroic to live.


… what or who tears down my house?

How this wind, this outburst or tremor that devastates and freezes everything as inside?

What is happening, that I touch the heart and stop it as if it were a river without heat

and the auroras suffer fear not only to emerge,

but also to be and to be diluted yet?

… I must necessarily enter my labyrinth and urge and summon my lights, my fright and cold,

go through the hollows of the threshold that I keep and go on and on,

until I can return with the balm that soothes the deep scars of my soul;

… ah, if a glimmer of light fell on my hand,

ah, if I could grow it and fill with it the terrible gaps that desolation is leaving …

… Because if with a drop of rain I could redeem the sea and hear myself and know what happens there,

– where I can not enter –

I would not do it ?

Wouldn’t the sun that goes out on fire

And wounded by living, he would not stop the hours and break the earthly seals of life until he found it?

… forces of my soul, can I break them?


… and no, no one will come here anymore, no one else will spend their afternoons in the autumn sun

nor will anyone repair the damage of time and silence,

nor will anyone remember that right there, under the plum trees and the willows,

I fathered my son;

… the wind will howl in winter, and even the wolves, the crows and the fogs,

they will pass wounded by loneliness and they will go very far,

for they will fear the encounter with the immense anguish that the broken stones breathe,

the gates, the fallen eaves, the hostile and abandoned land;

no one will find the footprint of the almond tree,

nobody the sea,

no one a path,

no one a cross or a light;

… and if this enormous damage results in the chest, without further ado, irreparable,

a sore of love, excruciating and revived, grasps its pain and destroys words.


… accustom the pain;

joy comes and I’m receiving it with trembling lips,

as if the body missed, as if the habit of pain

I would have avoided the irruption of beautiful events;

… this is how joy almost hurts, because with fury it presses against the chest to make itself felt,

to be recognized and assumed and in this way to pronounce;

… and there are so few drops of living dew that appear in the aridity that I am,

that I take them and put them through the cracks of being carefully not so that they grow,

but so that they do not die;

… everything seems to revert to this moment when I stand still, listening,

as if the faint glow I have is in danger, and quickly

Against a devious sea of ​​darkness and trickery,

I had to command the forces to believe in me, love him and defend him.


… my people guard the ancient streets

that had no name,

but dust;

from their houses hangs the aroma of time, that of the air,

of the thick mud walls, the depth of affection,

that with how much love they have given possession to the fellow moss

and with what determination in this light, in this sweetness that accompanies and soothes everything;

… I bring my heart here to hear the carts and oxen go by,

and fine-tune the live wheels that polish memory;

… if a street is the world, where, where have we put so many, so many streets

that we never coincide?

… for my town, small and alone, unleashed by time the morning crosses;

where will so much light and scythe go, that, when looking at it,

wipes his forehead, thoughtfully leaves me.


… these old pieces of my life,

these old stations with their threadbare trains stranded between bones and soot,

I want to open them

see them without fear of desolation and know with what wagon or wheel or instrument

I derailed one trip and another and another,

and what time came to be with me then to execute with fury and acrimony my mistake and my disaster;

… I want to enter, remove the wounded gift from my dead ways,

touch it with love, rebuild it;

[I will save the blows that never resonate through the streets or are named;

with my defeats and forces I will build a blade of light and some blades of exact grass]

… no, my life does not stop, and the eye of rust cannot stop it.


… be useful

and disappear;

… the swords to the river, the rose,


… I would like to go after this sorrow that harbors sadness,

and instead I have to continue and rub with faith the brevity until I finish it,

and see it, maybe beat it;

… although, after all, leaving suddenly,

it overwhelms and distresses me so much still, so much …

= = =

«FENICIA: love poems»


1- «Fascination»

2 – Presentiment

3 – Down that street

4 – Loving us

5 – Under the storm

6 – Reunion

7 – Late afternoon in July

8 – At dawn

9 – Honey

10 – This other creation

12 – Something else

13 – Requirement

14 – Third eternity

15 – Your eyes

16 – Burn me

17 – Smell of apples

18 – Midsummer

19 – The conch, the fire and the sand

20 – Love theme for a sad ballad

21 – The games

22 – Glow

23 – Authentic

24 – Celebration of the roses [intimate elegy]

25 – I remember

26 – Brief exegesis for a time gone

27 – Through the twilight

28 – By this time

29 – Farewells

30 – Autumn: reality and song

31 – Woman of Fire

32 – The remaining flower



… tear me away, feel me,

and in your own pain,

put me on;

… where you come from

– said –

from where ?

… And a bustle of pigeons and a murmur of goldfinches,

it flapped in your mouth;

… And we were new, immensely new,

with the fresh dew of that first moment.


… open me to the sun of your ripe grapes,

Take me and turn me on, Phenicia, and my love go crazy with the light

of your nectars;

… which aroma or rumor of March, between mists, zigzagging, you come ,,

agile as a gazelle, ductile as air;

… I notice that your lights are the scorching sun

of my living bodies and fields, the signal, the glare and death

of all the powers of my soul;

… I feel you and smell you through the avenues of warm afternoons,

and bells and lilies I am putting you to find me;

… and if this is my love and brevity, my happiness and my disaster,

when you find me, kill me;

May the resurrection find me on this side of the sea.


… no, I didn’t know that down that street,

– with its sausage stands, its bakeries and short bazaars,

with its tiny bookstores and ice cream shops –

life and death were waiting for me to move away life

and death deepen me;

… Because as you passed you raised the birds from the ground,

you took them, and when you left, you left me

as without air;

… down that street I don’t remember what I told you,

nor will I ever know why I went down and continued going down while you went up;

nor could I understand how vivid an instant of burnt light was

nor that the ash deposits hurt so much;

… And how to live now? And how to fly?

if you picked up the birds from the ground, took them away and hurt my throat to death,

how, how to live if you left the world deserted and the air without greenery.


… friend, you have to dream me between your breasts so that I live you

and open the doors so that I can enter and, inside, know that love and fire shine

all the depths and vats of the earth;

… with me,

I dream of your belly of larks and wheat fields,

of pure sands, of warm lines

and lights;

… I have to take, Phenicia, the cries of your mouth with my mouth and give them to you,

hear them arrive and feel your breath in disarray while I pamper you

and I want;

… we have to hug each other in the face of loneliness,

facing oblivion and death,

darling, we must necessarily embrace against the avalanche

from the cold;

… partner, we have, we have to love each other, and, in the delivery, look at each other,

and know who we are.


… as on bunches, the light settles and ignites wineries and vintages on your chest; while the morning throws spears like omens,

and, like kisses, rain;

[… The rosebuds rise and burst,

Do you hear them?

Or do you hear how the joyful land welcomes

the sun flares

and poppies and jasmine sprout?]

… your burning breath burns, and this is where the fire meets the fires

and by virtue of their virtue they touch, melt and burn;

… our silence is pure and deep in the face of the terrible clamor of heaven and earth;

everything, everything is value, and yet the raindrops stun us.


Do you still retain, Phenicia, that day of brief dawn,

the one who broke our breasts and hours and dismembered our lives

because we loved her?

… I often wondered then if it was not the gods and the beasts

who would build in my wild heart the pain I had,

the one who killed the flowers and what children we were;

But could this fury of blood that tightens my arms befall me now,

this sea through my mouth when naming you,

And this joy that breaks my bones while I kiss you?

… I find you, at last, when June marches burning for wheat and poppies,

when he becomes a god of fire and is throwing cherries to men and to eternity,

these, so sweet and red, that in your hands and in my hands

ah, Phenicia, they touch us both, burn us and kiss us.


… the July drizzle makes the fires green

in the afternoon;

… as a dove rises and flies into a flash of light,

in the hollow of your hand

my soul goes;

… and while the cars pass and pass, under the eaves, the city shelters

the heart

and a band of sparrows is stunned

and is collected;

[yes, in the roses

From your hand,

I house my soul]

… clusters of birds and gods chirp and hiss under the high beam of palm trees;

but in the rain of your hand, collecting your fire,

free and on, my soul goes.



… if the heavens are clean and deep, Phenicia,

the morning was never so beautiful as in your high breasts,

its depth, or on your skin giving this smell of wicker and thyme,

to tamara and fresh grass [I love you]

… Don’t ask about this oboes playing in the open

nor by the sublime drunkenness of blood;

after our thirst for the sea and the job of the cold,

this is ours is of roses, of light and honey, of fresh water falling;

… everything is fragile and brief at this moment, everything,

like the prodigious and serene dawn that lights up on your thighs

storms of fire, and now, forever, under the sun, immortal.


… there is no more truth, darling, than that of life;

not even death has been able to touch her, not even pain

nor oblivion; darling, not even oblivion;

… when I touch your body and you burn and my embers burn

and the vastness burns like a hummingbird of poppies and water,

is it not life? Isn’t life when we keep

our little heart noises in hand

and through them we know that hope continues?

… and when the weather comes and the air takes its greenness of joy

and for an instant a spark of abundance and glory arises,

tell me isn’t this living? .. because if this were not a gift of life,

So darling with what, with what are we, with what do we resist?

                                            THIS OTHER CREATION

… I come to you, broken by the day, divided,

pulling for myself and for the fury unleashed on papers and numbers,

I bring the seas without shores, the absent blood, the chest without a side;

… and suddenly, like light sprouts of rain, you,

giving sap to my roots, getting wet,

made bread and opened like a gigantic loaf for me,

– empty shell –

and you look for me to create me and give me a face;

… And you are now God, land and food,

You are all this in me because then I return to being human and to recognize myself,

to feel that my words say something,

I start to drink the rain that you clearly pour on me,

that you are born every day to create me.


… you have seen – well, you brought them – the seas burned by the soul,

And that’s how we met: drinking and burning, like an urgent hurricane

of thirst and fire, the one that snatched vigor and tenderness until they became fate,

in death, in life and necessary noise;

… do you remember when life ascended from earth

with that feeling of the indescribable, true and enduring?

Do you remember, do you still remember …?

… and when love grew against our arms calling us,

touching us and offering us to be a star that once inhabits the heart

y muere, te acuerdas, podrás, puedes recordarlo ahora ?

¡ … te he visto tantas veces huyéndome y buscándome y diciéndome

que no, que el mar no existe, ni los labios ni tampoco el mundo aquél

de las luces purísimas… !

¡ … qué, qué podrá detener la fuerza de este mar incontenible,

y por qué tendré tu luz entre mi luz, si ambos somos temblor,

y miel, y sueño y brevedad en este instante !

¿… por qué, amor, por qué así, por qué ?


… ah,

yo sé que  toco algo más que tu piel;

como si un mosto y música nacieran por tus vértebras

y rodando, y creciendo, vinieran por mis brazos y abrieran

por mi cuerpo dulzainas y timbales;

… yo sé que bebo algo más que tu aliento salobre;

pues sé que por tu boca rugen los mares con sus fuegos,

la muerte y la piedad;

…yo sé que por ella claman dioses y hombres desesperados,

como asimismo sé que mi espíritu quema y que tu espíritu hierve,

y que ambos, desde el mismos umbral del aire, expectantes y atónitos,

nos sostienen y miran.


… tienes que coger la libertad y venir a este barrio mío

de espejos rotos, mostrar tu alma al mundo

y que todos busquen a trozos tu reflejo;

… amada, no seas mía nunca, nunca;

acompáñame de vez en cuando a la vida, entra,

tomemos un café y huye, escapa escalera abajo,


… mientras te alejas, vislumbraré cómo engendra la luz

el movimiento y el grado de esplendor que adquiere el ser

cuando derriba puertas, blasones y atalayas;

[… quién, quién será, me diré, cuando ya te hayas ido

y te encuentres en la calle]

… amiga, tienes que venir a mi barrio cuando yo esté ausente,

cuando nadie tenga certeza sobre quién puedas ser,

y todos, todos pregunten por la desconocida.


… cómo dos días con sus noches, dos universos de tristeza, redujeron mis labios,

mis brazos, mi cintura, la algarabía de mis pájaros para a callarlos y entreabrir el olvido;

no estaba mi corazón conmigo sino todos los golpes y equipajes vacíos, la herrumbre,

la desesperación de un alba sin vestido y yendo ciegos y despiadados

por mi sangre;

… jamás sabrás cómo se nombran las horas asesinas,

ni cómo caen lo soles por el pecho partiéndolo y quemándolo,

para luego ahondarse por el alma en busca de refugio que albergue y aparte la locura;

[te nombro y es la luz]

… no, no sé que desconcierto de mares, nieblas y hojarascas

estuvieron matando en mí latidos de paloma y olvidándote;

mejor – confieso ahora – hubiera sido morir para sentir contigo esta dura ausencia

a que llevan los sueños imposibles; ahora sé por qué el amor transita

por tan íntimas estancias de la vida y es un dios de luz y fuego,

y por qué prende la verdad e incendia – tal cual vivo – la ingente conmoción

de este momento.


… desde el sol de los arroyos, desde el cielo y la  tierra desnudos,

yo traía, oh Fenicia, mi sed de ti,

buscándote en el pecho;

… y llegaste, y todas las fuerzas y dominios se engendraron para hacerse

luz y fuego en ese instante,

principio que latió con furia

contra los odres rojos

del corazón;

… nunca supe – pues nadie en la alegría sabe – qué grito dio la vida

al fundir tu aliento, mis hambres y sus luces;

. . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . .

¡ … y cómo enunciar la estancia en que te habito,

pues cómo, ay Fenicia, sentir la luz vibrar y explicar sin más tus ojos, cómo !


… quémame, arráncame de cuajo el silencio de los ojos,

taladra mi corazón y el final no será roca,

sino sangre hirviendo para llenar el río de tu vida;

… por arboledas de fuego has venido a beber mi mar embravecido,

a instruir en mi pecho una canción de olas;

[aunque sé, ay querida, que hemos de romper nuestras venas de cristal

y reparar con celo y daño el pago inexorable

de este tiempo frágil con su edad hermosa]

… pero ¿ habrá después ? ¿ y refugio para las fuerzas rotas del agua,

habrá ? ¿ y qué será del fuego ? ¿ y del amor, de este amor si algo quedase… ?

¿ … es que acaso no habrá de importar que hayamos de mirarnos tal vez

salvajes e irreconocibles ? ¿ y por qué no – digo – como dos infortunados

que tuvieron el don de compartir el mundo y todo lo vivieron conscientemente

con furia y plenitud como es y está siendo, aún, en este instante;

por qué no, Fenicia, por qué no, aunque algo nos esté gritando

que tras esta aceptación estallará el dolor y se excitará convocándonos la muerte…?


… mientras vive y se abrasa la tarde contra el pecho del mar,

sus cenizas desprenden olor a manzanas y tu cuerpo vibra;

… tu cuerpo, tu cuerpo de castaño en flor, de seda y mimbre,

de león y agua;

toda tú reconstruyendo mis manos y mi corazón en ruina,

y mi sed de muerte herida y acabada;

… ah, esta luz,  Fenicia, recordémosla y celebrémosla siempre, siempre;

… porque, adónde irá a parar – digo – a qué otros mares y orillas arribará

este increíble y puro instante;

… cómo, cómo podrá aparecer nuestro último día con su piel de bronce,

aquél en el que tal vez caigan las constelaciones


Límite de caracteres: 5000

and dies, do you remember, will you, can you remember now?

… I have seen you so many times running away and looking for me and telling me

no, that the sea does not exist, neither the lips nor the world that

of the pure lights …!

… what, what can stop the force of this irrepressible sea,

and why will I have your light in my light, if we are both trembling,

and honey, and sleep and brevity in this instant!

… why, love, why like this, why?


… ah,

I know that I touch something more than your skin;

as if a must and music were born through your vertebrae

And rolling, and growing, come through my arms and open

for my body dulzainas and timpani;

… I know that I drink more than your brackish breath;

for I know that the seas roar with their fires through your mouth,

death and mercy;

… I know that desperate gods and men cry out for her,

as I also know that my spirit burns and that your spirit boils,

and that both, from the very threshold of the air, expectant and astonished,

they hold us and look at us.


… you have to take freedom and come to this neighborhood of mine

of broken mirrors, show your soul to the world

and let everyone look for your reflection in pieces;

… Beloved, never be mine, never;

come with me from time to time to life, come in,

Let’s have a coffee and run away, escape down the stairs


… as you walk away, I’ll catch a glimpse of how the light begets

the movement and the degree of splendor that the being acquires

when she breaks down gates, blazons and watchtowers;

[… who, who will it be, I’ll tell myself, when you’re gone

and you find yourself on the street]

… friend, you have to come to my neighborhood when I’m absent,

When no one is certain who you can be

and everyone, everyone ask about the stranger.


… how two days and nights, two universes of sadness, reduced my lips,

my arms, my waist, the hubbub of my birds to shut them up and open up oblivion;

my heart was not with me but all the blows and empty luggage, the rust,

the despair of a dawn without clothes and going blind and ruthless

by my blood;

… you will never know how the murderous hours are named,

nor how the suns fall through the chest breaking it and burning it,

to then delve into the soul in search of refuge that shelters and sets aside the madness;

[I name you and it’s the light]

… no, I do not know what confusion of seas, fogs and leaves

they were killing dove beats in me and forgetting you;

better – I confess now – it would have been to die to feel with you this hard absence

what impossible dreams lead to; now I know why love travels

for such intimate stays of life and is a god of light and fire,

and why does the truth ignite and burn – as I live – the enormous commotion

of this moment.


… from the sun of the streams, from the naked sky and earth,

I brought, oh Phenicia, my thirst for you,

looking for you in the chest;

… and you came, and all forces and dominions were engendered to become

light and fire in that instant,

principle that beat with fury

against the red wineskins

from the heart;

… I never knew – because no one in joy knows – what cry gave life

by melting your breath, my hungers and their lights;

. . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . .

… and how to state the room in which I live,

Well how, oh Phenicia, feel the light vibrate and explain without more your eyes, how!

Burn me

… burn me, tear the silence out of my eyes,

drill my heart and the end will not be a rock,

but boiling blood to fill the river of your life;

… through groves of fire you have come to drink my raging sea,

to instruct in my chest a song of waves;

[although I know, oh dear, that we have to break our glass veins

and repair with zeal and damage the inexorable payment

of this fragile time with its beautiful age]

… but will there be after? And shelter for the broken forces of the water,

there will be ? And what will become of the fire? And of love, of this love if something remained …?

… Is it that it will not matter that we have to look at each other perhaps

wild and unrecognizable? And why not – I say – like two unfortunate

who had the gift of sharing the world and lived it all consciously

with fury and fullness as it is and is still being, in this instant;

why not, Phenicia, why not, even if something is screaming at us

that after this acceptance the pain will explode and will be excited summoning death to us …?


… while she lives and the afternoon burns against the breast of the sea,.

its ashes give off the smell of apples and your body vibrates;

… your body, your body of chestnut in flower, of silk and wicker,

of lion and water;

all of you rebuilding my hands and my heart in ruin,

and my thirst for death wounded and finished;

… ah, this light, Phenicia, let us remember it and celebrate it always, always;

… because, where will it end up – I say – what other seas and shores will it land on?

this incredible and pure instant;

… How, how can our last day appear with its bronze skin,

the one in which the constellations may fall

y mudas y oscuras hayan de continuar fluyendo del fulgor de la memoria,

chocando e hiriéndose contra el verdín de calles y plazas,

rotas y despiezadas ya,

por el olvido;

Fenicia, cómo, cómo será ese día; ah, pensémoslo y apretémonos hoy,

ah, con qué, con qué  nos hablará;

… aunque después de todo, este olor a manzanas, este pulso nuestro, que tanto puede

cuando estamos aquí ¿ no nos da resplandor y fuerza ?

amiga querida ¿ no nos hace ciertos ?


… con los pechos mojados por los óleos del alba


… no puedo perseguirte

con la luz

del rocío,

no puedo coger un hilo de sol y coronarte;

… como animal salvaje, te deseo;

lo demás,

es lluvia, éxtasis, sedas, y abandonos.


… si por amor ardiera el mar

y en una caracola oyera

tu voz

de atardecer marino;

… si en el centro del ser se juntaran

el agua y el fuego

y yo te sintiera quemándome

la vida;

… si mi cuerpo

a golpes se quebrara

y cayera en tus manos;

… ay amor,

si después lograra contemplar tus ojos,

tus ojos, amor,

sería caracola ardiendo entre la arena,

y en tus manos ceniza después de haber vivido.


… de tu cuerpo a mi cuerpo, Fenicia, relámpagos;

de mi cuerpo al tuyo un río, un beso en vendaval, una marea;

¡ …ay, cómo te he amado, y cuánto !

¡ recuerdas aquel temblor de rosas abiertas,

y qué ambrosía detectaba en tus pechos la furia de mi aliento !

… sí, es difícil recordarte y no obtener un instante hermoso

de luz por la memoria;

… éramos un hombre y una mujer, un hálito, un rumor, un cántico,

un eco solo y purísimo ¿ te acuerdas ?

fuimos una vez;

… hasta el alba de un día cualquiera en que ladraron los perros,

y, sin cansarse, toda la noche estuvieron ladrando, ladrando y ladrando;

aún brillaba la luna cuando, cerca de la madrugada,

se alejó la jauría con la muerte.


… cuántas veces te sentiste insecto entre mis brazos,

jugando a columpios entre mis telas de araña,

y te dejé ir

en busca de otro instante para seguir jugando;

… cuántas veces besaste la mañana en mi boca

porque viste el sol en mi corto horizonte,

cuántas viniste a mi fragua a forjar hierro nuevo

a costa de nuestro amor hecho chatarra,

y cuántas, cuántas inventamos besos sin bocas, abrazos sin cuerpos,

o forzamos una simple lágrima ardiendo sin estar llorando,


… y cuántas, cuántas hemos muerto y el alma nos ha engañado, cuántas, cuántas


… cuando el mar se abrió, seguramente ya supiésemos, Fenicia,

que la felicidad no existe y que no ha existido nunca, nunca;

¿ … cómo explicar si no las brisas de dolor que nos lamen la espalda

como lobos de hielo y que ambos viniéramos tan dúctiles y ágiles

para esta muerte ?

¿ … cuál ha sido, si puñal o hermosura,

esta verdad que al fin asuela y deshabita ?

¿ … cuál la razón – dime – para huir el tiempo frente al tiempo,

sabiendo que huracanes y estruendos han de vertebrar por siglos

este frío tan nuestro y tan del alma ?

… porque ¿ en qué puede consistir el olvido, su guadaña y labor,

si a pesar de esta inmensa ruina, ah Fenicia, y mientras muero, te amo ?


¡ … amante, amante, amante !

… he sabido de una arruga en tu rostro,

y he venido

a verla, a tenerla, a celebrarla;

¡ … amante, amante, eres verdad sublime entre mi vida,

ah, corzo o gacela, tú, en la arboleda, amante !

… tus ojos ¿ de dónde vendrán ?

… si tú me dejas, voy a guardarlos, ahora,

que son tan hermosos.


[elegía íntima]

… ahora, que sosegadamente te miro y estoy pasando las yemas de mis dedos

por los huecos sagrados de tus vértebras,

cuando acerco también los labios para seducirte y resucitarte

y al fin saber quiénes somos,

ay,  me está asaltando ese instante brutal con que irrumpe el olvido;

… y con este vértigo, mientras me declaro y hago hombre por tus dunas solares,

qué sombras y qué desolación aguardan tras los últimos besos y la última arena,

qué temblor mientras recojo por tu vientre lumbres y estrellas vivas,

y qué lóbrego, abismal y terrible silencio invoco para que no me oigas luchar

contra la verdad;

… y no, no sé dónde poner las hordas asesinas,

ni sé dónde la luz, ni cómo forjar la paz del dolor del mar,

ni tampoco, tampoco esta costumbre mía, de celebrar a un tiempo, las rosas y la muerte.

CAPÍTULO III – Poemas para un día después


… aún, aún corren gotas de agua

por tus pechos temblando;

aún cantan las chicharras al son del mediodía

y el aire del rastrojo llega y huele a hinojo, a higuera y a tomillo;

…y aún, aún me embriagan los murmullos del río, y tu piel, y las torvas de sol

y el frescor de la hierba,


… tal vengo a recordar ahora tus bálagos y nieves de agosto:

la sangre hirviendo

y los cuchillos vivos con que me mataste;

…y aún, todavía, recuerdo que por días y días, y descalzos,

estuvimos huyendo y corriendo sobre todas las piedras.



Límite de caracteres: 5000

and mute and dark must continue to flow from the glare of memory,

crashing and wounding against the verdigris of streets and squares,

broken and torn apart,

by oblivion;

Phenicia, how, how will that day be; ah, let’s think about it and squeeze today,

ah, with what, with what will she talk to us;

… although after all, this smell of apples, this pulse of ours, which can

When we are here, doesn’t it give us radiance and strength?

dear friend, don’t you make us certain?


… with the breasts wet by the oils of the dawn

you dawn;

… I can’t chase you

with the light

of the dew,

I cannot catch a thread of sun and crown you;

… like a wild animal, I want you;

the rest,

It is rain, ecstasy, silks, and abandonments.


… if for love the sea burned

and in a conch he would hear

your voice

of ocean sunset;

… if in the center of being they came together

water and fire

and I felt you burning me


… if my body

with blows it will break

and fall into your hands;

… Oh Love,

if later I managed to contemplate your eyes,

your eyes, love,

it would be a burning conch in the sand,

and in your hands ashes after having lived.


… from your body to my body, Phenicia, lightning;

from my body to yours a river, a kiss in a gale, a tide;

… Oh, how I have loved you, and how much!

Remember that trembling of open roses,

and what ambrosia the fury of my breath detected in your breasts!

… yes, it’s hard to remember you and not get a beautiful moment

of light for memory;

… we were a man and a woman, a breath, a rumor, a song,

a single and pure echo, do you remember?

we went once;

… until dawn on any given day when the dogs barked,

and, without getting tired, all night they were barking, barking and barking;

the moon was still shining when, near dawn,

the pack moved away with death.


… how many times did you feel like an insect in my arms,

playing swings among my spider webs,

and i let you go

looking for another moment to continue playing;

… how many times did you kiss the morning on my mouth

because you saw the sun on my short horizon,

how many of you came to my forge to forge new iron

At the cost of our love made scrap

and how many, how many of us invent kisses without mouths, hugs without bodies,

or we force a simple tear burning without being crying,

how many;

… and how many, how many have died and the soul has deceived us, how many, how many


… when the sea parted, surely we already knew, Phenicia,

that happiness does not exist and that it has never, never existed;

… how else to explain the breezes of pain that lick our back

like ice wolves and that we both came so ductile and agile

for this death?

… what has been, if dagger or beauty,

this truth that finally devastates and inhabits?

… what is the reason – tell me – to flee time versus time,

knowing that hurricanes and rumblings have to backbone for centuries

this cold so ours and so of the soul?

… Because what can oblivion consist of, its scythe and labor,

Yes, despite this immense ruin, ah Phenicia, and while I die, do I love you?


… lover, lover, lover!

… I have heard of a wrinkle on your face,

and i have come

to see it, to have it, to celebrate it;

… lover, lover, you are truly sublime in my life,

ah, roe deer or gazelle, you, in the grove, lover!

… where will your eyes come from?

… if you let me, I will save them, now,

they are so beautiful.


[intimate elegy]

… now, that calmly I look at you and I am passing my fingertips

through the sacred hollows of your vertebrae,

when I also bring my lips closer to seduce you and resurrect you

and finally know who we are,

oh, that brutal instant with which oblivion bursts in is assaulting me;

… and with this vertigo, while I declare myself and become a man for your solar dunes,

what shadows and what desolation await after the last kisses and the last sand,

what a trembling while I pick up lights and living stars through your belly,

and what gloomy, abysmal and terrible silence I invoke so that you do not hear me fight

against the truth;

… and no, I don’t know where to put the murderous hordes,

I do not know where the light, nor how to forge the peace of the pain of the sea,

nor, neither is this custom of mine, of celebrating both roses and death.

CHAPTER III – Poems for a day later


… still, drops of water still run

for your trembling breasts;

the cicadas still sing at noon

and the stubble air comes in and smells of fennel, fig, and thyme;

… and still, the murmurs of the river still intoxicate me, and your skin, and the sun’s torvas

and the freshness of the grass,


… maybe I come to remember now your bálagos and snows of August:

boiling blood

and the living knives with which you killed me;

… and still, still, I remember that for days and days, and barefoot,

we were fleeing and running on all the stones.


… y largamente me quedé pensando en cómo eras,

o en cómo aullaron los cierzos de marzo y las iras de agosto,

que tanto afligieron nuestras yemas tempranas;

pero, sobre todo, en que no supe hacer que del fuego solar descendiese la lluvia

y en la piel del volcán germinara una rosa;

… y no, no había desamor ni nieblas cuando escuché el silencio;

sé que a veces se aparece la eternidad con esa esmerada placidez,

casi dulzura, cual paz que orea, que limpia y calma;

… así surgía nuestro amparo o don de las resurrecciones,

la transparencia lúcida de todo cuanto con amor ha sido y con amor ha muerto;

… reconozco y siento tu sublime libertad y el aleteo de tus pájaros alejándose,

y también ese poso apacible y cálido, reconocible aún,

de la ternura fresca


… estoy viendo vagar toda mi sangre a través del silencio de tu mirada,

– rota por el incesante golpe del mar contra la tarde –

mientras el aroma del agua se extiende por las flores salvajes de la orilla

y unos niños recogen de las olas polen como un diluvio de sol en sus manos;

… sin embargo, tú sigues dulce y triste como una manzana prematuramente pálida,

inaccesible y distante, consumiendo nota a nota la avidez del mar

contra el son de tu pecho;

¡ … hasta dónde, hasta dónde crecerá tu hermosura hoy,

que el dios azul y verde se ha agitado tanto !

… un crepúsculo rojo se levanta y a lo lejos prende atavismos del agua,

pero has visto, y sabes, que la luz abrasa y salva, haciendo irrepetible y triste

la crucial edad de las cerezas;

[  una brizna de tomillo y lluvia florece en tu rostro]

… recostado en la arena, y al trasluz de la bruma,

más allá de tus ojos, e invisible, te miro.


… compañera, podría parecer como si este día bronco,

hubiera llegado dispuesto a exterminarnos del alma la sed

y la memoria;

… y, sin embargo, algún amor quedará sobre la mesa, alguna melodía

que se resista a morir, aquí y allá algún espejo roto o ajado,

siempre algún cariño rodando, algún beso último,

tal vez el primero;

… que esta amistad mía te dure; la que quiero cuidar y llevar en el pecho

contra todas las noches y propósitos, contra la propia muerte,

que te dure siempre, siempre;

y no, no te quedes sola frente al río, pues la paz del agua destruye y besa,

y luego, también, al recordarse;

… amiga, partamos, no importa;

ya ves, libres, cual si viento, con fe y afecto nos reconocen y reciben los álamos;

[…y al marchar va la sangre serena,

pero dándose golpes tintinean las hojas y los caballos del pecho piafan y tascan

contra los muros del corazón; éstos, indomables y airados, terriblemente airados,

con insistencia y furia por el alma pugnan, se hostigan y encabritan]


… nosotros, que nos hemos despedido tantas veces,

que nos hemos mirado uno en los ojos del otro para calmar la angustia

o defender nuestras copas de oro, conteniendo unas gotas

de furia, suaves y fragantes – pero que ambos sabemos

que son veneno puro que nos van matando, desarreglando

el alma y el fulgor de la vida –

aquí, aquí estamos de nuevo blandiendo los cuchillos;

… nos hemos despedido, digo, tantas veces en éste mismo instante,

y tantas, tantas hemos hecho el silencio que hiela y ofende,

que no sé si hoy, cuando el pulso tiembla y su son a oscuras nos celebra aún,

– no sé, insisto –

si valdrán éstas pocas palabras para matar definitivamente esta luz

que a duras penas nos sostiene y salva;

[amor mío, y no sé, lo ignoro, no sé si valdrán los cuchillos]

OTOÑO: realidad y canto

… alguna vez, al pasear entre el tedio y la soledad, cuando la brisa

y el rumor de las hojas caídas vayan contigo rodando y acompañándote,

sentirás de pronto un murmullo de voces y te sobresaltarás deteniendo un instante la sangre,

su raudal de memoria y el calor que tiene;

[… y no, nada habrás de temer, pues obviarás la nostalgia excitada y de nuevo elevarás el vuelo

y aletearás en lo alto hasta quemar la piel]

… hay, y queda, efectivamente, un largo fulgor por los otoños: rosas, días varados

en templos hermosos de ceniza y cal, miedo también, y duda, y fuego puro,

mares helados con que la mente vigila y cerca los atronadores vendavales de la pasión sin fin;

[pero un golpe de juventud termina siempre con nosotros]

… es la rebelión del cisne íntimo, el último estertor contra la sombras,

contra ese tedio final y el implacable ruido de la soledad;

… nadie, nadie puede impedir esta derrota, ni siquiera la bulla de estos pájaros míos

picoteando en el pecho, en la sangre, en las irreductibles hogueras del corazón.


… recostada en el pretil de la baranda,

el sol creaba aguamarina en sus ojos y en su pelo


… al descubrirla, con el asombro y fuego que evocan las resurrecciones,

tomé la vida y, con urgencia,

corrí hacia el pecho y lo puse a vivir;

… y viviendo la estuve ardiendo tanto y en tan hondo,

que mis lumbres se fundieron con sus lumbres,

arreció el misterio de la mujer quemándose,


Límite de caracteres: 5000

… and I was thinking for a long time about how you were,

or how the gales of March and the wrath of August howled,

that so afflicted our early buds;

but, above all, that I did not know how to make the rain descend from the solar fire

and a rose will germinate on the volcano’s skin;

… And no, there was no heartbreak or fogs when I heard the silence;

I know that sometimes eternity appears with that careful placidity,

almost sweetness, which airs peace, which cleanses and calms;

… thus arose our protection or gift of resurrections,

the lucid transparency of all that with love has been and with love has died;

… I recognize and feel your sublime freedom and the flapping of your birds moving away,

and also that calm and warm ground, still recognizable,

of fresh tenderness


… I’m seeing all my blood wander through the silence of your gaze,

– broken by the incessant blow of the sea against the afternoon –

As the scent of the water spreads through the wildflowers on the shore

and some children collect pollen from the waves like a deluge of sun in their hands;

… yet you are still sweet and sad as a prematurely pale apple,

inaccessible and distant, consuming note by note the greed of the sea

against the sound of your breast;

… how far, how far will your beauty grow today,

that the blue and green god has been so agitated!

… a red twilight rises and in the distance lights up the water,

but you have seen, and you know, that the light burns and saves, making unrepeatable and sad

the crucial age of cherries;

[a sprig of thyme and rain blooms on your face]

… lying on the sand, and in the light of the mist,

Beyond your eyes, and invisible, I look at you.


… mate, it might seem like this rough day,

would have come willing to exterminate thirst from our souls

and memory;

… And yet some love will remain on the table, some melody

that resists dying, here and there some broken or faded mirror,

always some love rolling, some last kiss,

maybe the first;

… may this friendship of mine last you; the one I want to take care of and carry on my chest

against all nights and purposes, against death itself,

may it last forever, always;

and no, do not stay alone in front of the river, because the peace of the water destroys and kisses,

and then, also, by remembering;

… friend, let’s go, it doesn’t matter;

You see, free, as if the wind, with faith and affection they recognize us and receive the poplars;

[… And when leaving the serene blood goes,

But beating each other the leaves tinkle and the horses of the chest chirp and clack

against the walls of the heart; these, indomitable and angry, terribly angry,

with insistence and fury for the soul they fight, harass each other and piss off]


… we, who have said goodbye so many times,

that we have looked into each other’s eyes to calm the anguish

or defend our golden cups, containing a few drops

Of fury, soft and fragrant – but we both know

that are pure poison that are killing us, disarranging

the soul and the brilliance of life –

here, here we are again brandishing the knives;

… we have said goodbye, I mean, so many times at this very moment,

and so many, so many have made the silence that freezes and offends,

I do not know if today, when the pulse trembles and its dark is still celebrating us,

– I don’t know, I insist –

If these few words will be worth to definitely kill this light

that hardly sustains and saves us;

[my love, and I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know if the knives will be worth it]

AUTUMN: reality and song

… sometime, when walking between boredom and loneliness, when the breeze

and the sound of the fallen leaves go with you rolling and accompanying you,

Suddenly you will feel a murmur of voices and you will start, stopping the blood for a moment,

its flood of memory and the warmth it has;

[… and no, you will have nothing to fear, because you will ignore excited nostalgia and you will once again take flight

and you will flap on high until your skin burns]

… there is, and indeed remains, a long glow for the autumns: roses, stranded days

In beautiful temples of ash and lime, fear too, and doubt, and pure fire,

frozen seas with which the mind watches over and surrounds the thundering gales of endless passion;

[but a stroke of youth always ends with us]

… is the rebellion of the intimate swan, the last rattle against the shadows,

against that final boredom and the implacable noise of loneliness;

… nobody, nobody can prevent this defeat, not even the noise of these birds of mine

pecking at the chest, at the blood, at the irreducible fires of the heart.


… leaning on the parapet of the railing,

the sun created aquamarine in her eyes and in her hair


… upon discovering it, with the astonishment and fire that the resurrections evoke,

I took life and urgently

I ran to the chest and put it to life;

… and living I was burning it so much and in so deep,

that my lights merged with their lights,

the mystery of the woman burning increased,

so the garden and the railing and the air of my breath burned;

… that is why I now have this memory of mine, this indestructible vision of the sea

with fiery waves for my life, opening it and burning it inexorably;

… oh beauty, beauty, get on your knees with me and let’s be quiet today, now,

Let’s stay like that, let’s both be mute


… Because this dimension restores me, protects me,

for love is a high flight with which everything alters and originates;

… thus the light or sea that remains,

a very pure essence that welcomes, starts and saves the god from the enormous din of the earth;

and because life is a river that exposes its mysteries to the heart,

and the heart – with pure fire and in its wet aridity –

conforms this silent and living truth that sets fire and resurrects;

… but alas, how can he come to terrible pain and sing it with his love,

If the blood, visceral and angry, destroys us so much and holds us in it, how …?



1 – Words

2 – First reflection

3 – Jericho

4 – Noise

5 – Memory for comfort

6 – I will not go crazy with fear

7 – Ignite eternity

8 – Sequence of days

9 – The meeting

10 – Magnitudes

11 – What do I know

12 – A wrong cry

13 – Revelation of the day

14 – Calm down heart

15 – A summer day

16 – Zenith song to Órbigo

17 – Invocation

18 – In the hollow of the heart

19 – Look

20 – Of the labor of time

21 – Decipher the height

22 – Critical Monologue

23 – Value of feeling


1 – Words

2 – First reflection

3 – Jericho

4 – Noise

5 – Memory for comfort

6 – I will not go crazy with fear

7 – Ignite eternity

8 – Sequence of days

9 – The meeting

10 – Magnitudes

11 – What do I know

12 – A wrong cry

13 – Revelation of the day

14 – Calm down, sweetheart

15 – A summer day

16 – Zenith song to Órbigo

17 – Invocation

18 – In the hollow of the heart

19 – Look

20 – Of the labor of time

21 – Decipher the height

22 – Critical Monologue

23 – Value of feeling


… my words, that today neither bridges nor stars build,

and that often crack like fire caught from the hard embers of the heart,

my words, I say, I put them carefully here, in these verses,

as with hardly any light or time, almost doubting;

… there is little to offer from the gift that has not been,

from this unfortunate weather of men who go with our hands up,

groping and asking only, filled with enormous wars, blindness, and misguidance;

[A terrifying fragility touches me when I ask my soul what I have to do or give,

and silence tightens the chest and hurts with its wise and deep intelligence, pure and excessive]

… oh friends, though sad and few, hold fast and gather my words,

maybe, some dream, can get hold of them.


… this disaster of my life, this exterminating blow of angels and roses,

this event that has entered my chest and has filled my blood with havoc

and the speech from heaven, besieges me, tenses me and hurts;

… I don’t want to exaggerate what loneliness is like while teaching,

or how the stupidity of time arrives and is invading the shoulders,

arms, waist and feet stealthily, how he pulls on the couch of the madman

because there are no more birds to pass through the window and the damage is great:

an unknown and uncontrolled constellation of axes and bodies, stridency and orders;

I know that it is a moment of minimal virtue and of very little man,

a fray of caged wolves by and in my own cold;

… but I also know that this ruin of mine will pass, although at that resurrection

no one is summoned and the wolves howl at me hour by hour, day by day and year by year

through the tense and icy veins of the heart;

… I believe, I believe in the life of my besieged bones;

Where else will I build what I hope?

Where else freedom?


.. when my walls were about to collapse,

those who defended my earthly kisses against the cold, against blows and voices of anger

And I saw there was no choice but to grab myself by the lapels

to hold my stones and hold on to them, that’s when I said to myself furiously:

«If you are not able to understand, to endure pain and transform it in solitude,

you will not serve for god, not for warrior and not for father;

because if you are not able to join hands and hold pus, urine and life at the same time,

then you are a barbarian and how much you have had, lived and burned,

how much ash lives in your eyes without water, it won’t give you a poppy

nor will it bring you the brightness of wheat;

… Ask yourself, ask yourself – I demanded myself again – and remember the facts

in which you were about to be an admirable flower, to recover your tears and stone hours

after the end and the disaster, remember where and why you fell dead then ”;

… In short, I don’t know why bones resist or why the sea burns with love and light

when the mud comes down the shelves of the heart and everything groans, falls apart and trembles;

… which crude miracles, it is supposed that this is how the facts are structured and determined:

iron decisions with which to face the murky and irreverent hours that have yet to come;

those of this endless, purifying and unconditional combat between being and death.


… I’m inside myself, I’m going down into the depths

of the dark pulses;

[ … how difficult it is to conceive from above the noise produced by the sea and fire

hitting the being;

I can’t tell you where I’m crossing

ah, I do not want, in any way, a cult that consecrates and fills the misfortune of memory]

… if this light did not accompany me,

– the fragile match that gives pain –

Could I even enter where I’ve been so long

So much did I destroy and so much I loved?

[ … but the law that instituted me, the one that now destroys me,

Would you know the enormity of this noise, its depth,

the impiety and torment of living? ]

… within me voices stir, hallucinations and screams,

the world rolls crazy and before my eyes everything groans and shudders,

it swells and grows, cracks and breaks;

… even knowing myself in myself, I feel imprisoned and scared

And I don’t know, I don’t know exactly where I am

for being and the world face each other and hit, dissolve, come and go,

And a dry, freezing, boiling wind, unscrupulous, I feel like it’s robbing me

strength and light of the soul;

… Oh my God, my God, I can’t take it anymore and my match goes out;

… I do not hear the being, I am lost, I cannot find the pain.


… tonight when I turned out the light and found my bones

and once again I felt that they resisted the blows, the silence and the darkness,

perhaps affection would invade me, perhaps compassion,

because in a hurry I went to look for memory to my blood for the consolation and to give it;

… and I brought her;

I first brought the one I had so much and put it there, next to it,

and it hurt us;

but immediately I had to introduce myself for years and hours and return to each time

because I wanted to bring some warmth to this endeavor, to this moment of life,

some briefness with which joy happens and passes sometime,

so for a long time we were contemplating those few things of my soul;

… with love, my bones and I were quiet and still,

as if we had found a way to dialogue and accompany each other,

and to know that dawn would never find us so far away again, in the dark and alone.

I will not go crazy with fear

… in these precise moments of my life, I want to look,

consciously feel that I am and am here,

contemplate my blood

and see

that my memory will contain this joy;

… if it weren’t for the emotion of wanting to live right now,

to snatch my body, open its darkness and listen to it inside,

maybe I had to believe that nothing was and that nothing has been lost

because there has only been earth and pulse and suffering;

… but this instant, conscious and pure, who can take it from me?

Who can prevent him from being my own intimate pulse,

the audible and faithful witness of my heart?

… I don’t want to look up, but this very brief act

that it will end and extinguish with me;

… no, I don’t think I would have an explanation if I went crazy with joy,

but would he have it to go mad with fear?


… this scrutiny of pain, the one that hurts and makes the voice raw,

lips and bones, this final tiredness of what is or remains,

[boredom, brevity and cold]

Until when, until when will it be?

… god of my body, raise a spring of living forces

with which to stop my rivers and black seas,

observe in what trembling I keep my being and in what misfortune

faith in itself is extinguished and does not console;

… Because is it lawful to humble oneself, stop and then see disasters arise or pass?

Is it loneliness with the vast domain that its power entails?

… oh old god with my man crises, I need to live, stretch and tread the light,

ignite eternity with this hard moment even though collapses later destroy my shoulders

and neither love nor freedom appear, not even a small song with its wisp of fire

on the chest;

… oh god you run through my quiet and wounded blood, raise my hands to continue,

touch them with your living fire and light them, rebuild them, take them out of the stupor of death

and make them capable for the fight.


… who, who has no memory of the shaking of an afternoon

or does not pick up a trace of dust with his finger after the absence …!

… The world is just a warm affection, an infinite wheel and a jingle

of water, only, hardly;

[all men were together one day to build a living square

and the square got scared, it left, and we are still looking for it;

… Because there are those who take a handful of dirt, squeeze it and bury it in their hands;

and there are those who sow in it and with the fire found, after staunching madness,

build the morning and start with it the resurrection of the sea]

… Common days are like this: it is hard to walk in the morning and get to work and markets,

It is hard to cough, say hello, feel the light on the temple, listen to it;

… ah, if we didn’t institute storms …!

because most of our lives,

– whether we know it or not –

we spend it closing things and defending ourselves from noise

and fear produced by created eternity;

… Inside, and as I write this, the wind, howling and cold, hits and stuns me;

It is my storm freezing and thawing, the one that makes me, the one that I still can’t see

nor to describe;

that’s why, that’s why I surely fear her.


… with a straw hat and roses death came;

She advanced gracefully, resolutely, with that satisfaction that power and strength evoke,

and I, immobile, stared at her;

… when she came to my side, stopping, she asked:

Why are you facing me?

… and I answered: «because I am stronger than you»;

… and avoiding my body, livid and full of anger,

She started walking, raised her chin, and threw her hat to the ground.


… if God would come with me this afternoon to touch so many things and teach me

to resurrect them, oh feet, oh lightness, oh understanding …

… because the days weigh like stones, they sink into people’s pockets

and they pull down at work, in kitchens, in the streets;

therefore, how, how to resurrect the days;

… if this afternoon God came and appeared in this corner

in which we amassed eternity, I would see the work that remains;

… but I am alone, because he has commissioned me to resurrect loneliness and the sea,

and I don’t know how to get close to them so that they don’t kill me or fear me;

… ah, ah, if I held the joy …!

What do i know

… what do I know;

we had round and fresh sins and great feeling;

It was when the water ran through the streets, the air boiled, and the light sowed

the morning with swarms of gold;

… what do I know what it was;

my father tied my shoes tightly and my mother kneaded

the sweat of the earth;

[… the clarity of children lasts forever; even in the greatest desolations

she looks out through doors and windows, gets restless, goes up and down, leaves and returns;

even to invade us definitively, little by little it ends up undermining and crumbling

the neat and omniscient walls of the heart and there it remains]

… what do I know, what do I know why I hold and wave in my hands

a lamp and a sword,

what do I know how to defend life, what do I know;

Well, if it is human, that doubt arises and with it talk,

I also know that waiting can be deadly for the gift of the warrior;

… what do I know, what do I know.


… maybe, maybe it’s not too late;

therefore would you do well to take patience,

and by spending it against bones and desolation, trying to get

May the world open to me and see that embers still resist with which to weave hope?

… could thus discover the aridity of these mosses, of these snows and fears

that cloud the joy?

… maybe it’s not too late and I have to burn my hands to find my footprints

For the blood, or maybe I have no choice but to die

– which is like being silent with clothes on –

and go from here to there rehabilitating anger, destruction and downtime;

[… or maybe, being a man is something else and he’s searching, blind,

absolutely blind, a solemn, banal and mistaken rite with which to live]

… but, even so, it is better to fight;

no, don’t be scared by this reflection of pure war;

It is about the intimate fire, the one that truly cements and kills,

the one who consciously destroys and resurrects.


… this warm shelter,

this heat that nourishes the heart to look at the day

and see it,

this mystery inherent in the light that lives and consoles,

Is it the little glory that the sun lends to being and to the morning?

… although, to find out, will the conscious affirmation help

of this miracle? And shutting him up, would it do …?

… On the edge of being there is so much beauty!


… patience, heart, you have lived the pain so intense, calm down;

… Look at the light, it does not get impatient, nor does the sea, and the air arrives clean

of the mountains at sunset;

breathe, breathe and feel deep, heart; think of your strength,

in how the world has rebuked you and in how you have fought and endured the combat;

… It is true that pain is enormous in cities, that it arises as slavery

of human ivy and passionately excites and quenches the filth of blood;

Be still, then, and do not rush because we have both learned to cry;

… now we have to preserve patience and calmly accept the new chirping of the birds,

ah, we have to feel and know, heart;

That’s why, that’s why, remember, we’ve been running from who we were.


… my friend cried, cried bitterly and could not comfort him;

[he had always believed that his attic was a crowded attic

important objects, and that in your hands, the challenges of life,

they were either minutiae or insignificant bits of gold]

… I cried, and I couldn’t comfort him – I reproached myself – because my hands were missing,

the mouth, the heart; no, I couldn’t do it because I was missing everything;

… and without knowing how to help him, I hugged him by the shoulders

and I started to think and tell myself that who did not have a cast connecting rod,

a broken circuit or a melee of flies across the skin one terrifying day

in which plagues, sadness and disasters grow …

… and everything was closed: shops, bars, churches,

repair shops were too…;

and I with my friend at dawn, both crying in the middle of the street.


“… And my life broke like your waters:

opacity only under foams ”.

… ah, Orbigo of the soul,

may this aching course of your body never stop;

… when just childhood was made of wicker and the air was dreaming of storks and swifts,

I was a swallow that, straightening the morning, furrowed the deep lattices

of your belly;

… you welcomed the boreal rains that had no return basins,

from beyond the earth to my green you came throbbing,

vestal to the trembling of the lover;

… in Vecilla, my heart;

… ah, I never knew after what song or tragic grove

we made the afternoon shudder;

I stop time, however, and the hours return ashen,

winnowed with pitchforks and let us memory;

… you know well that the price of water is to leave and end

or edge the chest here, in this bend, Vecilla forever;

… Orbigo mine, wounded harp that you assume the rumor of this moment.


… let this light not go out, resist it now, oh my bodies and strength,

how drunk the horses are passing from the cold;

keep this courage for me, I need to wade through torrents of salt and death,

and with open chest go out in front of the world and overcome precipices

where hurricanes pass by howling

of reason;

insistently remember the faith that I need, that of the patient gift together with the little things;

think, think, then, seriously of the excessive effort to which I am calling you;

fight against the forgetfulness of time, fight, fight for God insistently

in the face of hatred and the proximity of madness, for your being and honor, stay here,

and resist with me.

In the hollow of the heart

… no, my heart has no seat;

so much pain spends,

so little is left;

… there is a shore with ships desolate by my blood

and ruined wakes,

and a wind,

– an immemorial song –

and a furtive and sad echo;

… if nothingness were and I were nothing,

and some way and soul and standard would have,

for what reason, for what time or flower would not fight if it was still possible …

… Because it is worth living after all;

even sensing this risk, atrocious and indestructible,

with which sometimes the terrible and ungraspable flights of the hours are and damage.


… this contemplation of the radiance from on high,

Will it be true? Will heaven be behind her and will we both be true?

… because one is in so much eagerness, clothes and businesses,

I still don’t know very well how I got here, I have felt the light,

and I have started to look;

… because, if I didn’t know, if I didn’t know what it takes to look at the dark

and walk in it as in my own life,

Would I look with amazement and faith at such a radiance, this instant like clean blood

of a pure heartbeat?

… something is buzzing and it only emerges in the cold, with the December sun;

… is that finding what I’m waiting for?


(or memory shock)

… enter the heart for a time with fury and live axes and camp in it,

he mercilessly bursts and dislodges it, throws it in a landfill and curses it there, crushes it and spits it out,

looks at her with contempt and then leaves;

… and with the heart thrown, with the attacked blood and the birds pecking the rust

where the sea and being were lit,

no, it is required to live,

for no one doubts then that he has died and that even herbs are beginning to grow on him,

omens of salt and sand, thistles, that the wind begins to howl and leave verdigris in his bones,

unequivocal signs with which solitude scrutinizes and fills its interstices;

… therefore, when a rose is born at such an instant, one tends to ignore that it is there where it is born,

for it is sworn and perjured that his blood infects and his devastated being do not exist,

that the light of time is gone and his black axes can no longer wound him;

In his nothingness, one tends to believe that his hands of stone and death will no longer be able to raise life

of the embers of the heart;

… And yet, in his eagerness to regain his heartbeat, he will stir, cry in front of him, scream,

and filled with pain, like a god of a desolate sun, will resort to memory,

But this woman, with his face of total abandonment, will be swept away by an invisible sea of unspeakable sadness:

indolent and damaged, does not remember roses.


… the doves shone and, like a wandering sibyl, carrying cards and miracles,

across the rooftops and the afternoon,

the light was going;

… And what will the height be?

over and over I insisted, chasing her and setting the air on fire;

[It was when a constellation of embers and worlds,

she opened my eyes and I started looking at her with that amazement

that at the same time leave the brilliance and the desolation;

when I stayed a long time responding to the abyss that I housed in my hands

and to the blows without love and without wisdom with which the hordes were arriving


… it was the time of fear, this very one, the one that is passing with its neon and tin arms,

the one that leaves unhealthy traces to the soul, through deaths, and secret deicides of the heart.


[the spirit never, never goes mad; but he will try

interpret your music through the harp with

his broken strings]

… come, oh be mine, and defend me again here,

In the avenues and pebbles of blood, where they are ruling together

hatred and dew;

fear not, they are only flashes of struggle, do you see them …? it is war;

… but even if the sky falls apart

and the earth shake the sublime interstices of reason,

You, oh being mine, endure, resist and do not dampen the noise that overwhelms and overwhelms,

Let’s grit our teeth and smile

Let’s endure the fury until the effort consumes my strength

be mine, until I die;

… you know that I always wanted to separate the intransigence of pain from the sign of light,

and that I always dared to light my tiny match, the one that with love and eagerness

It gives way to that hard, dear and endearing dream that I had, and still have, with my father.


… when you come in man, and only in man,

do not bring me words or flags,

nor instruments that shelter death

and talk to me, partner, with your soul;

… because the soul has no other trades

than the murmuring echo of life,

and the gift of his friendship does not seek margin

nor ceiling in love happiness;

… I propose the light, the pure essence

who walked the earth without borders

and brought this harmony that I name you;

… there is something, you know, that moves us

and sow virgin air through the mouth;

you know what value the feeling gives.

= = =



1 – Looking for Ahab

2 – Behind this stone wall

3 – Accused

4 – what music

5 – Territories

6 – From the window

7 – Loneliness

8 – In jail

9 – From the fire of words

10 – When Spring Comes

11 – Without faith, without light and shattered

12 – I decided to go to Bilbao, to see him

13 – Yes still

14 – My friends have died

15 – As the days go by

16 – Darkness

17 – Of what Moby Dick yells at me in combat

18 – About time consciousness

19 – Continue

20 – Towards the universal being [of republicanism]

21 – For Orion Bis

22 – Dulcinea

23 – My city

24 – In my own body

25 – Dark Night Illumination

26 – Intimate spring on earth


… it was late and I had just got up;

I had a deadly hangover and my head seemed to be splitting;

And though I clenched my teeth and held it tight to hold it and fix it in place,

Suddenly I got sick with rage, so I started coughing and coughing and I was like that for a while,

until crazy and unhinged, out of me and through the rough sea of ​​the kitchen,

Like a bull I went round and round like I was Moby Dick

looking for Ahab to kill him;

… standing up, and contracted my forehead, trembling and pissing, I managed to dump myself in my mouth

the bitter coffee pot, and although several times I clicked my tongue in disgust,

I managed to hold on;

But right away I had an attack of nausea and I was filled with hiccups and coughs,

– I shuddered up and down –

so trembling like a green rod I continued to be discarded and wrinkled;

Sure, sure it was the illness, who knows, or the drunkenness we had last night,

I only know that the bastards spasms tore the glass from my hand and threw it at me,

and that when he crashed against the ground, he completely stunned me and ended up cracking my head completely]

… I stiffened and sweated and sweated, then lowered my eyelids and held them there, on purpose and with balls,

still and tight, like stones [ … actually, at that moment I didn’t know if they were mine

Or those of a coward who was closing them in a hurry to run and run

of his own end of the world;

but that, that I thought while I believed that there was no longer a remedy and that in three minutes I would palmar

… until at last, hunched over and cupping my stomach with my hands, spouting slaps and bile,

I went out into the corridor and between curses and cries of the crazy woman, between vomit and vomit,

– falling down – I ran to the toilet [the crazy one, who would be the crazy one, if not my only neighbor!

and it is that that one no longer, does not hold, did I not just tell you …? to that devil’s aunt

It matters little to her that a train kills me or that a razor cuts my neck;

look that when I see her, I look at her askance and say: “Cloti, you are totally hooded, you neither fu nor fa,

you no longer pull or capiscas na de na, you don’t find out ”;

La Cloti lives upstairs, a deaf and stupid old woman, the one who throws a blanket over me

when I’m late and I start snoring like a pig on the stair landing]


… it’s gotten dark, it’s cold and my mouth hurts;

I don’t know why I’m here, my feet are swollen and the wind is blowing like a dog;

and while above and below the head good and evil approach planning a crime

and break my skull, I try to hide, press myself against this wall and protect myself behind the stones;

… everything is amorphous and distant, bitter, and therefore

– take a good look –

I wonder whether or not to be intrigue or can move someone,

for all expiation frightens and everything seems to tremble and succumb;

So why enter me, tell me, and what to ask of me in a moment of life like this,

what to contemplate, what to reason?

because what should I face and understand, what …?

… oh you, little god, embodied in me with two-faced illuminations,

I was thinking about you behind the wall because I was going to ask you to leave me

and make no more efforts to save this filthy work that I gave you with badly created feet and mouth,

badly created brain centers, age and emotion of man,

and also strength and honor,

and also peace,

and order;

bad, very bad I have assumed and directed, then, my own creation, my temporary stay …!

… ah, Hamlet dear, after death, and before another day dawns,

hard and terrible works await me beyond, especially in the gloomy gullies of the soul, especially;

and also, here too.


… I have put on this houndstooth jacket, rickety and old-fashioned,

And these dark flannel pants that I stretched and stretched so I could reach

and fasten it at the waist;

the truth is that he had them there, behind some boxes, lying around and half hidden;

I never thought I would put them on again, because I have been a tormentor for a long time

and not a lord; the shoes, instead, like the shirt and tie, I borrowed them,

that’s why the bastards have been running off me all morning

and the shirt and tie drowning me; of course, they were neither mine nor they were comfortable;

… and all because I felt ashamed to go to trial as a defendant looking lazy and drunk;

[Even if I say this, don’t believe me at all;

What really happened was that I suffered a giddy nostalgia and, for a moment,

I remembered the toga and with my soul I imagined and I was contemplating the cruelty of the law,

and there, in front of the prosecutor, unprotected and alone, I saw a woman and that woman was my mother]

… it must have come to me, sure, from when I was a lawyer and the quagmire of the world ripped open my temples;

yes, maybe, maybe that’s what actually happened, yes, that must have been …;

however it doesn’t screw you!

look that when leaving the hearing, almost already in the fucking street, and they go and tears come to my eyes …


… music, blunt music, edge and buzz, macmbric and quirky …;

These sons of bitches …!

since I told you that music created holes in the skull and worms in the brains,

they don’t stop, and day and night they will scorch me with whoosh, whoosh and whoosh:

rap, rock and cod, pure coconut and grated;

… look they are sons of the great whore …!

and only because I am old and unstitched they do it to me;

They don’t give a shit about shooting me and pounding me;

Good God, you know very well how I hate those devil noises …!

… and then they laugh like crazy and call themselves friends! yes, they say it a lot when you have to go catch,

to score a roll or give a stick, or when at three in the morning between jokes and jokes

we piss in the street, that, even if it is torn to shreds, we forget anything

and we laugh at everything;

… Wolf, at least, although he hit the neck well, he did it like a man, but these …

… friends, friends they call themselves the bastards …!

They know that with those noises they will jump my brain, that they will kill me, they do know …;

as if one were a complete fool or had been born yesterday, the same;

friends… ! … your father, friends!

… he should tell them to go learn education with this Wolf, he would teach it well;

Yes, there, no matter how cool they were, surely that bug was going to get the fool out of them

that puts that music inside them. …;

Don’t screw you, well, what a Kaffir’s nest …!

friends, friends as they kill and kill you.


… badly dressed, without washing your face and without combing your hair, you should come to walk a few through this neighborhood

a Sunday afternoon for a while, so that when you jump water and mud onto pants and skirts, and scream,

no one would run to put a razor in your kidneys telling you:

«Hey, don’t even move, stop and be quiet»;

… the high beams of cars when exiting the motorway dazzle and blind,

you should be more careful with them;

we are few, but, at night, no one can sleep:

they enter stairs and cracks in windows, they get under the eyelids,

and all night long they don’t stop fucking us alive, running around the walls like crazy;

… I would also like some of you to be named after someone of ours;

Thus, to name us, no one would come like now saying “tis, tis”, or “tus, tus”, like dogs;

.. but, above all, you should love us something, what does it cost you to pretend that we were not wrong

and that we are on the right track! Although, perhaps, who knows if you should not burn these pigsty

With us inside and then with the horns crazed with drunkenness and euphoria,

unlocking everything and burning it;

There has never been anything in these parts, neither police nor snitches;

You know well that here, for a long time, almost, almost, we rolled and we are like stones.


… down this street, by dint of stepping on husks and dog shit, we almost always slip down

to avoid chips and volleys of mud, trash remains or stone chips;

… today it has rained, and the cold and humidity lift from the ground that spicy stench of winter and sadness

in streets like this one: aimless and steep, dilapidated and demolished streets, streets where old men and children

the veins are attacked very early and the sewers fill with blood and excrement;

so it is here, and in the surroundings;

here, in addition to jinchos, badass and manguis, there are only shows and general morons:

lame and maimed of something, possessed and unguarded in body and soul,

pure scabies;

… here, when we look up, it is to calculate if the knife will reach someone’s liver

or to fly open because “munipas” in disguise approach, or, when not, “picoletos” or “maderos”;

… myself, if I tell the truth, right now I don’t know where I am or remember anything;

I’m sure I went down the street bouncing and hitting everything, so now, as you can see, I’m crazy;

Luckily I just have to hold on to a pole and wait a while for my head to be clear;

But in the meantime, and before I forget my name, I have to keep pounding saying:

you are Carlos Nieva, Carlos Nieva, you are Carlos, Carlos, Carlitos …

… Yes, until I can’t take it anymore and I start crying and shaking.


… Carlitos, Carlos …! she is still my mother from the window:

sudden widow and cleaner of mucus and filth of all kinds and shafts, that was my mother;

… if I didn’t know that my breath and also my hands and life were burned to raise me,

If I did not have the certainty that the body’s gale was torn from the soul

to have me in her eyes, today, constantly and thundering, I would not get this voice

from inside saying to me: Cain, Cain, what have you done with your mother …!

«… you will go to school, to the best, and you will be a lawyer,» he told me, holding my hand,

stumbling and breaking on the way back from my father’s funeral;

… and what a shame, what a colorful worm and death touched me on the shoulder when I was a lawyer,

in what swamp of oblivion I plunged my triumph and usurped my hours of illusory brilliance,

what madness, Great God, what calamity and what black warp!

… I burn in cold, in fear and loneliness; I’m dying, mother;

… you remember ? On that green and checkered rubber stretcher, we played hand in hand

to the ladies and to the Parcheesi on Sunday afternoons; I love you but now continue

and go where you are and don’t look out, don’t see me, don’t come back: now Sundays don’t come, they don’t exist;

And besides, if they kill us, we don’t give it importance; don’t come mother, don’t come, never come back.


[… And immediately an intimate voice asks: “But you, Ahab, who are you…”;

and laughing and scoffing she walks away and disappears]

… and with my fist raised and in front I ask why, why and why,

but nothing creaks or squeaks, no, nothing and nobody responds;

… there is no doubt: when this happens I am in total silence, I do not even hear myself

the thought to think, not even;

everything is silent, everything stops and I forget because I’m dying; yes, I have the intuition, the deep security

that I’m dying;

… for months it seems as if I had no strength, I feel tremors and anguish as a child,

and nobody, nobody should know that for some time now I cry, nobody; what ignominy;

I wake up at any time of the night and it’s like I’m going crazy: I open my eyes wide

because I don’t know who I am nor do I remember my name, I don’t remember anything;

[My God, my God, what loneliness!]

no man, no dog should go through such an instant;

… it would have been better to have died with my mother, or earlier, and with another shot, with my father.


… today the police went to look for me and brought me to the «hut»;

… I should have gone up to Cloti and jumped on the terrace and from there to the orchard,

and then buzzing off the wall; but no;

… so here I am with a choricillo from three to a quarter, a vulgar «tajuela»,

of those who spend two days well fucked up and leave;

… once they had me thirty months and they took me out because I was going to die and they didn’t want jewelry

like me or throw any requiem in jail [neither in the hospital, nor in the warehouse, I know]

… that’s why they let me go, because I’m «a jewel», and because my hands started to sweat and shake;

… damn, if I had my drop of bitter coffee on hand …! because here we are always

the usual ones; As soon as I entered I heard that they called me El Gere and El Lupi, and that other, «El Priva»,

that asthma lunatic; it doesn’t bother you, nor did they know it was coming …;

… surely they don’t bring Lobo here, no, that one …;

that one sure lives with his drugs and sleeves

as a whole lord, as a monarch or as a priest, for sure. …

… if what I have always said: to these clubs we only come morons, lazy and rattles …


… it will seem incredible, but I have finally learned that old ways not only mold,

they crush and kill;

That’s why the very whores have made me so dense and devious, moreover, I would say unrecognizable;

… and it is that, the days that come like this, it is almost better to shoot yourself,

or start running and running and not stop until you fall like a tire in the gutter;

I couldn’t think like that, or maybe I was forgetting that I must have been a man;

… and it is that, after having followed and continued with relentless determination for so long

inside this being-man-donkey, it seems that he had forgotten them and could not recognize

even the words, I realize suddenly that the sublime can no longer be easily found

nor can I take them without a halo of remorse;

on the contrary, I notice that when I touch them, they rub against me and hurt me,

as if by force of not using us an insurmountable pit had arisen between us

of anger or resentment, of estrangement, of distrust, or, simply, of crude discourtesy;

… and no, I dare not say that this derision does not hurt me, this affront for happiness

and rules of mind and heart that I had;

… these rogue days I know them well, I know them as a fucking mother, well always,

they always come with hidden knives;

you go so calm kicking the leaves and, suddenly, from the back,

You feel a stabbing pain that squeezes you, that drowns and drowns you and does not even let you breathe;

… and although I usually tell myself that I am already very old and that I must be careful with everything, very careful,

– and again and again I repeat it – I, however, erre que erre, forward and against the ground and give him that,

day after day and without regard, with rancor and jealousy, with anger and fury.


… it is already summer, but the cough has returned and the cold does not quite leave me;

La Cloti’s cats have just woken up, and, after stretching, a spider clawing at you down the ramp of the gutter,

They have come down and, as always, one by one, in a row, they have begun to enter through my kitchen window;

… this house is one of those made of adobe plastered with a miaja of capia, one of those tiny slums

that serve the landlords to suck our blood;

that’s why mine is so thin and weak, there are months that it doesn’t even appear;

Of course, the poor thing must be very ill;

ten or fifteen gypsies live in the shacks next door, and further on, on the same corner,

two or three Romanians or Bulgarians and three or four whores, scrambled together,

day and night;

… here, so high up, we are almost everything there is;

because later, further, if we follow what was the sidewalk,

A piece of abandoned street full of herbs comes out,

with the manholes broken and the curbs full of verdin and without putting;

however, look where: although the poles of the power line are falling

to pieces of old cigars, the light company has not stopped putting meters;

Ahhh, how much bastard is cooking around here …!

… it’s a fucking thing to be in a place like this, too high and in the open,

Although everything must be said: when spring arrives, and for a few days, very few,

It is nice to stick your head out and see how the herbs are born and thrown out of nothing;

but immediately everything dries up and the plastics and cans are exposed

who, like madmen, come rolling and roaring from the landfills;

… how, how did I come to this! I do not know, I do not know;

Anyway, I think I must be near the end already, yeah I think very close already,

that is trodden and smells,

I’m sorry, I have it in my heart;

Lately, I keep wondering.


… do I mean, today, bankers and politicians, apart from priests and husbands / fellow murderers?

… no, the roots of the world are not other, because who by fame or money has not destroyed

something, who not because of sex or power …? Or even, and thus, who does not himself? yes, let’s say:

Who gets rid?

… there is no demagoguery, although long, long before my father was killed,

it was also like that;

and because this is my time: fast and cynical, trivial, undocumented like almost all eternity lived

and that I perceive hungry, enraged and completely deaf, as full of an absurd force

and strange that it came from the earth and the air and turned me into a soulless person who hardly wants to look back;

… sometimes I take pieces of newspaper from landfills and garbigunes to still know who I am,

and then, incidentally, to be able to dispatch at ease and loudly with La Cloti, my senile neighbor;

[because she does have a little black and white television, dwarf and ridiculous,

And in the past, when she let me see her late at night, we quarreled like condemned

and without regard]

… in truth I only see everyone running, running and running everywhere without north or south or water,

without signs, in disarray …

… God you’re in my broken shoes: we men should know where we are

and where they take us;

better, we should be the ones to take ourselves …;

I say this because I am getting old and perhaps I feel fear, and because I am getting poorer,

poorer, much poorer;

I know that I am much more every day, and you know well that I did not even contribute to the College

five miserable years;

… although I don’t care anymore, no one is going to give me anything;

And because I’m sure I’ll die suddenly or maybe everything will end sooner because maybe someone,

Either way, I ended up killing myself;

… the other day I picked up a newspaper and saw that a certain Castells was trying to tell what was happening to the world,

And damn it, it made me still hear my mother calling me through the window;

and what a misery, guys,

all running over and I like fled, made this bitch birria: a mess, a real plague

and stuck in this cave of faithless shit, without light and shattered,

a real crumb …;

… Titis of the world, what a misfortune, I repeat;

after not being worth a real,

what drink;

in short, a betrayal of his own and of balls;

sorry, sorry to tell you,

but that, that I am.


… today I was calm when I got up and I even coughed little;

then, as if I were going to court, after entering the kitchen and having a few drops of bitter coffee,

From boxes and drawers I took out my best clothes, stretched them and put them on slowly and on the train of ten

I went to Bilbao; And they will not believe me, of course, but I went straight to see from the entrance esplanade

the Guggenheim, and then to do and walk decently in Doña Casilda park, to walk

by Gran Vía and then by Diputación and by the pedestrian of Ercilla …

… Bilbao has become very beautiful;

Can I say that going like this, face to face and in daylight, I was almost ashamed to look at it?

… some people were shocked that a guy like me, with a wrinkled jacket and hands stuck

in the pockets, pay attention to the luxury of the shop windows and important buildings,

or that such an individual stopped to smell with delight flowers that grow in the street planters,

next to the trees …; Who really knows what they might think …!

… yes, Bilbao is really beautiful; … and remember that I made myself in its streets and squares and that I was young

and that I crossed them with the gift of life on high, with the illusion of a man …!

… on a granite bench, the kind that are next to the Metro and the English Court, I stopped to rest;

but I easily realized that I no longer have the habit of seeing so many tidy people pass by

and in silence, neither of his closeness, nor of his education …;

… and look at Buenos Aires street …?; impossible; no more, I will not go up or down again

for Buenos Aires, no, never; nor will I return to Fireman Etxaniz, nor to Lertxundi,

and likewise and not Albia; now I think the audience is in Barroeta Aldamar

and the School in Rampas de Uribitarte, in a real palace, in an authentic kingdom …; it is the same;

[I just wanted to think about it and be able to write it] forgetting is criminal; there are times worse than ruin.


… if he still found a trace of life to look at the sky with dignity;

but, if so, what would I say to him? To what glimmer of light could I direct these filth and disasters

and with what sign, with what reason of man?

… oh questions that do not give the heart more than revenge for what was lost

and a random and blind thirst that will never, ever be quenched;

so full is the soul of tragedies;

… I remember, yes, those days when burning my hands, temples and bones

He was able to stop, raise the world high and defy its dregs and rust, drink its damage

and then fight for him and me;

nevertheless, and yet one’s own folly is something else and comes alone and by itself,

lascivious and angry;

This is how she took my life from the hinges, this is how she pecked me in the sea of eyes and singing was in them

like an exalted bird of virtue and fire;

and so, so it was in reason;

… if I could build myself – I say – a serious pain to slowly and consciously love it, educate it and overcome it;

ah, if he still had the prestige to speak to the soul and by doing so not die!

… but it is so shameful and tragic, trying to repair without honor the pabulum of the spirit, so much and so much…!


… you know? Tuli and Olino have joined;

… the very Kaffirs threw me out of the car in full swing and lined up like crazy for Artxanda;

The truth is that I don’t know why we fight, the point is that I saw them go like lightning bolts up;

… and now, damn they are down there, torn to shreds, in the Cruces warehouse with black eyes

and the forehead and the eyes lost of blood; oh God, oh God, Tuli and Olino …, both;

.. and Look at her, poor thing, where will she be, what will she have done, what will Miren have said? I have not seen,

I have not even seen it; … and poor Tuli …? without anyone, without a soul around …;

I told them there who it was, I said it and put it in the book, yes, I said it, I signed it and there it stayed;

so if someone asks, they can know that Tuli was not a fucking lie but was here,

that buzzed around this filthy neighborhood with Oli and me;

… what bastards, why would they go up to Artxanda like that! Anyone, anyone knows!

… Maybe the car went away, maybe the police stepped on them …! But what the fuck,

there is no right! If at least tonight we piss like before, so calm everyone

in the middle of the street, yes, tomorrow we will see; But they’re both dead, dead, and well dead

that already, that is to say; I think I will tell La Cloti, yes; although, of course, she hated them;

but if I tell you, he’ll still roll up his sleeves and keep me company tonight for a while, after all …;

It doesn’t fuck you, it doesn’t fuck you, what a pair of chubby bastards … Man, no and no, this is not done …!


… since Tuli and Olino pencaron her,

I’m nobody;

In two days I have become rheumatic lost and I have pains all over, I am not worth two cents,

not one, what am I going to be worth …

… the truth is that now, since I do not beat or step or catch anything, I live on bread and water with a pinch

of yogurt;

Before, if things went wrong and there was a rush, we would go to the supermarkets or enter a rich house

and the thing was fixed;

Now not even that, I couldn’t, I can’t breathe and also get excited, I’m scared …

… the days come and I let them go by in thought, sitting next to the garbage with my head

sunk between shoulders and hands;

how ironic, but when i’m like this, after a while i think i’d like to read a book

or write a poem like yesteryear, or just talk to someone a bit,

with someone polite, clean and friendly …;

but if I take a look from the side and up, I see La Cloti at the window without stopping to shake

her cursed and ragged carpet or jumping to the roof her incredible row of starving cats;

… hence she continues still and dead, staring at how the light hits the cans

and the glass jars of the landfills, and how, while gulls, magpies and crows squawk,

– and after looking at each other, with usury we go sharing sadness, waste and anger;

… In a little while we don’t see each other, then there is nothing.


… a terrible storm is crushing and crushing the neighborhood and the mountains and the light has been charged;

above my head, old Cloti’s cats meow in despair, and she, as she always does,

She has started dragging chairs and tables like an obsessive woman until the world stops and her fear stops;

… friends of opulence and strength, do you remember fear …? ah … and heartbreak?

What about weakness and old age and terrifying thunder? Do you remember them all, ruthless and together?

And death thinking and nosing closely, do you know it? tell me, have you seen and lived them, do you know what they are …?

… Because by God and in the name of old Baudelaire, hear me tonight,

that with an unworthy voice and life I remind you and I have asked you again,

for tonight each and every one is going up and down through this house breaking it down, blowing it up,

confusing her and mixing the creaking of bones with the bustle of the tables and the tormented

meows of the animals, like crazy and horrible beasts;

… tonight, in this instant, right now, I say, the entire orb is pulling and crushing drops of blood

against these walls and the heart, against the tiles and the infected air because this is the oppression, the fall,

the infamous and indolent gesture of the world against being;

It is – I affirm it here with fury – the inconceivable reverberation of terror and sword, gall to gall and face to face,

ah sick scab of squalor and filth of animals and debased, sad and cowed beings;

… Yes, after all, and although he despises me and hates me, I will definitely go up tonight with La Cloti;

we will remove their chairs and tables together.


[«… remember that the spirit does not grow old or go crazy»]

… listen, kid, and don’t be scared or scared, because, if you scare,

the hosts will fall on you like vultures and you will stumble and be gnawed by bed bugs and lice,

you will begin to see the light in black and your nights will become gloomy wells with rats,

with owls and crows;

because, listen to me well, if you freak out, you’re not going to have an exit and with your tail between your legs,

Like a vile outcast or stubble whore, you’re going to have to constantly run away and curse

around the world from one place to another;

… and you, that, piranha friend, you that …? Come on, come on, get up …! I’ve known you for years and I know

that before you will burst, that you will rub yourself or put out your eyes, that you will invent if necessary mills

with blades like cutlasses and that you will play your hands and your life in front of them;

… what are you waiting for? run, run and don’t cry; Do you still not know

that any vulgar beak has to kill his own plague and eat it to keep running?

Come on, piranha, come on, it’s your chance, jump, jump now over the world

burning and fuck you, burn or break your spine if necessary and stick it to pieces;

and then when you’re good fucked and shredded on the floor – yes, well fucked and shredded –

later, I insist, when you try to get up because you really want to live and breathe,

keep living and growing, then, kid, now, we’ll talk for more;

your time has not come.


… on the hill that surrounds the city, looking back, time has stopped;

… passed by devastating how many junk it found in its path

and now he is still, absorbed, looking insistently at our streets and faces,

as if he was breaking down the smallest details of our hands,

of our gestures, of our souls;

… I had never seen him so serious, so gray and haughty, never so focused on analyzing

who we are and what we do, what we utter or where we are going;

… it’s scary to see;

looking at his forehead is overwhelming;

and although at the moment it is inconceivable that it happens, it would in any case be terrifying,

– maybe creepy –

Deciding to come back, ah, that would be terrible.


… while helpless I attend the disaster of my youth,

in his chest he trembles and cries out an untimely sadness;

I was like hiding, like crouched behind the walls of the orchards and life

so that time passed without seeing me;

and not;

… but rejoice, sweetheart, you’ve had a chance for a time to beat,

short, yes, but rejoice;

collect the brightness of the cherries and take it to the top,

next to the honor, next to the lip, next to the tithe of light;

… so what are you afraid of, sweetheart? What sadness will you not conquer after accepting each flow

and confidence in the blood? After all I’ve seen you think and doubt

Well, I know that over and over again you tend to get that dramatic doubt about your immaturity

of man;

… but no matter how much it is said, in the end the weightlessness that reigns always scares,

that horrendous and harsh emotion that instructs and fills inside the tremendous cavity

with which there is oblivion;

… ah, as if we don’t have major greed for the death label.


[of republicanism]

«… I am the heart of the traveler, his Fleur de Lis and honor, I, the republic;»

[… Because, although deep and loud the wind whistles and creaks,

think that it only carries old cries, old pains, old perfumes;

stop, listen to it and feel it, don’t doubt it, it’s yours]

… because who will be the republic, its hunch and breath?

Who will look for a dark star and rub and rub until the world

in it catches fire and glows free?

… Do you remember that one, your intimate warrior, the one who, wounded by illusion and death

disappeared in battle because he drank and swore the divine and civil chalices of men?

ah, it will come very soon;

… and what should he do while with so much loneliness and the terrible feeling

that in his soul instruct waiting and sadness!

[… I look into the distance and, very slowly, night is approaching;

… I will enter his heart and, in the face of hard bloods, of eternal drive,

with another sun and other roses I will fight and fight for the republic;

… not in vain I am his law, I, I am his prince]


[ … I have been warning you very seriously,

Well, he has lived in this house forever, he wears his father’s clothes

and longs at all costs for a wife identical to his mother;

oh my gosh what’s going to become of him … ]

… ah dear, I’m the one from the other side of the world,

the one who ceaselessly circling heaven and earth

returns and visits you;

… and if fire is my father and water my mother,

I’m just a charred wisp


mine only;

… do you put your eyes on the palm of your hand and your heart reeks of shadows, pain and smoke …?

Do you regret, Orion Bis, do you doubt …?

… because if that’s the case, you’ll have to burn yourself inside and run away, throw yourself into the sea

and become light, bed and body, and also build your boat of love

with what to save you;

… if you are of salt, even of salt, oh friend and brother on this earth,

if you are still here, I say, do not celebrate your life party with this mineral of death,

ah, don’t let the old woman who spent crying and murdering Ireland come back,

do not allow it to pass and assuage your weddings again with the very excellent,

very noble and sublime: the enormous freedom.


one’s own soul]

… music, in the deep shadows I hear music;

Where are you companion, where?

… with broken arms I lift the earth, I chase the echoes,

and between battles and stones and bones of love I look for you;

… where, where are you partner, where?

And in my search you beat like a trembling light

that, between fires of blood, beautiful and pure will be afraid to burn

… will you be here, here, partner, in my veins of fire,

in the gift of this rose and appeasing this sea …?

Where … where are you, mate!


… I enter the city of my soul and, in doing so,

everything is announced to me and transformed: its air, its stones,

its peace and its rivers …

… I enter and, with zeal, through its streets of light and blood I tread,

by the fire of its lights I go barefoot;

… ah, the flower I was wearing, have I lost it?

… I call and shout pink, pink …!

and although there is only silence, the city of my life shines and speaks to me;

… for her the gods of my mouth are singing.


… my son, today the sky shines like a feast of light

with golden timpani;

However, in the shelter of this humble bedroom,

you wake up cold and prostrate, and your limbs, like tired wings,

they seem to fall from an infinite flight between the pure sheets of the air;

… your mother and I admire your patience and strength, son,

and your eyes – your signs of life – allow us to go out into the world, return to your side,

and breathe in the divine aroma of love and frankincense.


… on seeds of pure love my son’s arms grow;

Oh beloved sun, jewel, light and gold of my heart,

sing while the laurels grow, while the birds peek into your glow, call me]

what other dark night can prevent us from this brief flight and strengthen the ties

that unite our lives, son, what other illusion or snowstorm could stop us,

tell me, what other death, what other battle yet;

… through high slits in the air the sky is lit;

garlands and angels descend on them, living drops of fire and rain fall…;

But nothing, nothing imaginable can be compared to the slenderness of your soul, nothing, son,

with the infinite tenderness with which your eyes give life to the clear and clean course of the night.


… through the endless holes of my abode

today honeysuckle and hyacinth sprout,

and beautifully intoxicates my enclosures

the essence of a leafless rose;

… smells like the moon and rain this day

and other dark and different loaves;

on the deadly flight of instincts

the soul feels the illuminated night;

… how can life be so beautiful,

if emerging from an impossible angle

Through the mud it lights up and flashes?

… in your cup, loving and tangible,

God enters, and my being becomes visible,

melting into the Sun that inhabits it.



1 – From the infinite march towards freedom

2 – Itsoel and Aitiíne

3 – There will always be bandits and they will always arrive

4 – Give

5 – Enter and ask

6 – Metals

7 – High

8 – Approaching the final battle

9 – Intimate proposition

10 – Fourth joy

11 – Hidden and intimate

12 – Treatise on light for Christmas

13 – 2004: Reading

14 – Cure a bird in the afternoon

15 – Sunblind

16 – Second reflection

17 – Exception to myself

18 – Africa

19 – New words

20 – Definition

21 – Losing forms

22 -… where humble attention


«… look and see that things do not last long,

not being that they become stale and rancid ”.

… rebel, oh be mine, against the old ways,

the old lights

and the old joy;


and resurfaces on intimate endings,

especially how much your shore or bridge may be,

your law or freedom,

but, in the end, your death;

… to tread the eternal you must overcome the veil of fascination,

the humus of the blood and the nectar of the lips,

and with love and science institute your strength and your beauty: a pure, learned and faithful spear

with which to face the creeds of men and gods and not fall;

[… We need to create new concepts, new numbers and new geometries]

.. make, then, with my bones a terrifying fire and with my soul a river,

a vast sea in flames with which to instruct and spread the light;

Be mine, be brave, don’t stop.



… Aitiíne knew Itsoel’s body, he was knowing it, when he said:

Itsoel, beloved, your body is a carved and chosen gem,

it is in me like the ocean entering the land,

but your soul, Itsoel, your soul escapes me like fish swimming in the mist

of the night and I am alone, lost among the huge ice of the flame;

… One by one, Itsoel ran over Aitiíne’s features, how pearly and wicker

and with delight he kissed her belly, chest, hair …

… everything, everything was deep and delicate to the touch, to the feeling,

at the hours, both theirs, theirs, alone,

slain by and in silence;

… with Itsoel in her arms, searching for him, Aitiíne walked aimlessly through the night and the fog

For eons, ages and years, under the protection of angels and archangels,

by the sea and the rivers he cried under the pain of the moons,

and without a voice he searched and searched for the instants without wind and without dawn …

«… oh beloved Itsoel – she sighed desolate and dejected –

invite me to the sunset or dawn when you wake up;

next to you, next to you I will be ”.


… Itsoel’s hours were of water and fire, thyme and amaranth;

They came set with the honey of the linens and the light that they start

ebony birds;

… she opened her eyes, closed the great lintel of the morning in her eyelids,.

and held the roses and the hinges of the world

when it sounded like torment and rebellion by the blood of Aitiíne,

and the mission that anointed him suddenly rescued the truth of the angel of the rain:

the one that allocates dust, silt and ash endings to the heart;

… Aitiíne took the dark cup of ivy and drank from it,

just as the sun, mystical and naked, crossed the firmament instituting

the indestructible signs of light and freedom for the Earth.


… they are the same ones that took away our lands, our house, our life, our soul;

They are the ones who will cut off our streets, tongues and hands again,

those who will hide us the water, the light, the freedom;

… I remember men who emerging from the dust left us blind

and also to the women who in spite of everything loved them;

but in the same way I remember purple-women, those who before leaving

and blade by blade, they left the meadows filled and burning with flowers;

… but we will last a short time, because before the day darkens,

– ah, long before –

in this same century, someone will come for us to be sold as cat meat

or like old strips of film, well, civilly, we will never, never be free

of highwaymen and oppressors by force and fire, never;

… There will always be bandits and they will always arrive.


… would you exchange money and friends, fame, sex and power

for touching the eyes of a blind man with his hand and seeing?

Would you endure an endless and lonely march through the desert,

beset by heat and cold, dust and snakes, and about to die

of fatigue, loneliness and fear, will your mouth whisper «no, no, I give up a drop of water …»?

… and what would you give of yourself to create a flower with your life and start a fire

of a blade of grass, what would you give? In what area, in what place of the chest would you give shelter

to such a dream,

to such faith?

… because some, some time you sense your being trampled and transgressed,

and also damaged or abrogated their powers: as if the crows devoured your liver

and at the same time vampires would meet you through your veins,

– and some other, confess it –

besides crying and moaning internally, with all your cravings you would have wanted to pull and break

the rings of the world,

which are nothing but intimate irons with which little by little you yourself have split and tied to them

light and joy;

… who will decide first! … well there, just in that couple of moments,

the liberation and glory of your soul would have begun;

friend or friend, don’t hate me for telling you.


… slowly, for a long time, I walked inside looking at myself and wondering

what the fears, the pains, the deaths and the voids that there were in me could mean;

I tried to touch them, but in each of them a light and hour with their flavor crunched and creaked

and shadow, while with love or anger their images were stirred, raised,

And out of poisons and mud, out of pure consciousness, they exhaled cries and words

of very difficult memory and concretion here;

… it was evident that for the first time she had dared to walk consciously through such an attic

of bloods, overwhelmed by the brutal disorder with which I managed to found every moment and pulse

with which I lived and erred;

… I have to say that, after opening it and seeing my heart, I ardently wanted some affection

and I looked for some kiss, some shine, some sweetness of mine that had remained undamaged;

… mercy, mercy, I have a very young heart! Do not you see ? memory

having cried out after raising his arms in front of the sea and memory,

in front of the din of the gods riding without rest through the barren fiefdoms

of my old infinity;

… at the end, in total silence, which had entered, I went out and there, impassive and in tumult,

with irreverent harshness –

Birds of Paradise came and pecked my hands and shoulders mercilessly;

… I shivered in fear and felt cold, very cold.


… contemplate, my soul, the last things: terror, rust, desolation,

yes, contemplate them;

but look and see also your sword of courage, your strength, and before we go touch your light:

living tears through which tropes of worlds have passed striking and rubbing you,

because with them we will face the transgressor guardian of the light,

to whom he held everything with his teeth;

… but, even so, let’s not claim victory, because days will come with iron minotaurs

and larks, with swallows and serpents, and we will have to cross cliffs

where always, before, they ended up falling down

the wind / south and the sound of the sea;

… vibrate anyway, enter the fires of bone and blood and start and build

a sun;

As long as there is a worn torch, do it and light it, let it shine forever

the being and becoming of metals;

… my soul, look at her, here she is, our time has come;

[And how not to recognize it if it hurt so much

and it houses so much!

but even so, let’s ask for it and stay;

… woe is me, even in joy, it is costly to cry.


… above, very high, where the afternoon is golden, swifts and seagulls go crazy with sun and light,

of freedom;

… and incessant while, life goes from here to there helping, propelling the breath

of tiny insects and river fish, and the supreme effort to live

from the flowers;

… «one more moment» – I hear someone say – and looking, zigzagging,

a petal falls tearing the soul

against the spikes of the air,

and the rose, on the edge of injury, looks at me and resists, and, even crying,

she dies and smiles.


… here, in front and just to the side, the clearest lights of my eyes go with me;

the darkness goes behind, lurking, waiting for the sudden indolence that lies in joy;

… ah, heart, fear not, get up and see with what power the soul touches you, sustains you

and encourages;

… however, I well know that despite everything you intuit the battle, the one that life or death

you have to deliver on the edges of heaven and earth and always so as not to lose;

… bearer of my soul, ah, do not admit in advance the heartbreak,

receives from the blood the splendor of heaven and equips with it the impregnable gift that


… anyway, let’s face it, how much and in what way these phases of final determination age,

these phases of testing, these sores filled with courage.


… catch on and fly, glow;

oh soaring light,

opportunity is sometimes a dirty puddle in which we stare, absorbed in terror;

then, and beyond death,

the imagination is abstracted and mute, constrained to live for two seconds

the hasty doubt of its annihilation;

… more, when he has crossed the stench of the world,

when it touches the bones and vibrates in its marrow the genius, and the emotion of life,

then oh amazing light

the imagination is no longer a top that dying will end up falling,

ah no, nor a tiger wounded and imprisoned in the bush;

for it is simply now a sweet honor or a burning rose,

an indescribable joy between the deep and pure embers of being and the sea;

… my spirit, I will feed you with the best of the earth and the water, with the best of the air;

oh invisible flower, I will ignite you forever with the beauty of fire.


… joy was glued to our eyes and mouths, to our bellies and sexes;

we carried her hugging our chest like an eternal lover because nothing and nobody

could stand in the way of that feast of love, crowd and music, nothing to that delivery

to the pleasure it was to feel the unspeakable flight of youth in such a terrible cry;

… that’s why I remember that, more than looking at each other, merely by touching each other we understood each other,

and that for nothing we laughed in the face of the stupidity of the stones and time, in the face of failure

and faced with the mere possibility of ceasing to shine, to glow with passion for an instant;

We were that day of honey and blood, of kisses, of sound, that day we were up

in the world’s car and we kicked on it hard so that the noise would lift us higher

and thus transfer to heaven the existential anguish of so many hearts even without reason or owner;

… And there is no turning back;

One after another, slowly, fear and stupidity have overtaken us,

tremors have appeared to us that overwhelm the nights, and, reflecting the dawn,

the crystals have become translucent monsters, expressionless accomplices

of the light hatched then;

ah, oh terrifying and new luck with which to fight again and to be,

ah power defeated;

… when fleeing, and in time, fallen angels overwhelm the anguish of the old sinner that I was;

ah, they, my defeated dogs, so earthly and divine at the same time, so of life and high,

so much so that Christ is dying to tell us: “Companions, my dear friends and more than friends,

we can go together ? Well, I was, I was at the party ”.


… what dryness, oh fountain, and what a childish and arduous impulse

pretending to put the finger to the water that is alive;

… it is already December and, between gales and snow, the almond trees encode the earth

with white fire, they point it out with it,

they elevate it;

… I feel in me like a moan alien to everything, like an immense hole in the front of the soul,

as if a snake had discovered the heat of my bones and rolled around them

to hurt them and by dint of pain to kill me;

… it is difficult for me to walk and forge the flowers, plant them;

too many grudges go with me, too many torments to instruct

a tall, clean chalice;

… but be very still and nobody worries: it is my story, a personal account,

a clear challenge with which, based on daily and aggressive deaths, build without blows

the strength of a flower;

… anyway, know that, if you saw her, she would not succeed in the endeavor.


… every year, around this time, I leave my house and my lands and come to the bridge,

I pass it and then I walk and walk in search of the light; but there is so much darkness,

And it’s so tight and dense that my feet end up swelling

and the night adhere to my body like hard and enemy mud;

… that is why I am here again, at the return of the year, stepping on ancient pebbles of the bridge,

those that little by little have been shedding their imposing and silent blocks;

… this bridge was known not only to my parents and their parents,

but for the grandparents of all grandparents; they were the ones who left said

that they would cross for him when in the evening they would go out to collect dews or manas from the sky

and they came back stronger and wiser;

… today, again and tired, I will return to my house, and next year, around this time,

dead or alive, and higher or lower, I will inevitably cross it again;

… They say the light is out there;

Oh if I sensed his presence, if I could touch him, oh if I saw him coming …!

2004 – READING

… at this time and on this day there is no refuge: I am witnessing the deconstruction of time,

to that of life, to that of the soul;

fly the air loaded with laws, powers and numbers,

and by mobile phones, computers and printers, aimless and desolate,

huge amounts of anonymous terrors and victims appear;

… is it only allowed to imagine the maelstrom from behind the skin,

from the place that was always destined to faith or to the sword, to the sweet affront

to observe, be a coward and at the same time be silent?

… here the century is made, armed and dissected through bombs and shouts of steel and glass;

they are saws that adjust with frenzied exactitude the van of the years to its hinges and decades;

this millennium will be what these few years will be, what this century, and the pending revolution

He will ask his god to open our minds again to rethink the light and the sun;

[… although at this time and on this day, of course, the flowers are changing and we don’t see them]


… companions, now, that face to face we meet again,

Will not that light be worth us, the one that brought the pain, to rub and clean the blood,

to give it luster? Or rather, and ignoring the soul, we will have

to take back the sickles, cut off each other’s head and then lift it high

with pride ?

… shouts of vengeance and death, of honor and strength, thunder through my mind,

those that I started with me because they came from the earth to make me a thief and a murderer;

… and I had to see a wounded bird to suddenly return to the sea and here, on its shore,

touch the water, wash it, and little by little live with it and die from me;

Oh, what would I do, how would I light the fire without this honor, without this redemptive beginning of the sea!


… how strange it is not to discover the use of the hours while darning

and we accommodate time, or how we stretch the seams and stitches of your skin;

How strange not to observe the slowness with which the cold penetrates and takes hold,

the afternoons, and a taut, ductile slant of inexplicable darkness;

And is this true?

[I thought I noticed strange geometries, clusters of free will

and strong gales with which to shoot down the incipient ash in reason]

… «no, it’s nothing, surely it’s nothing» – I tell myself uneasily – and I continue:

«I remember well when I looked for these things for the first time.»

… anyway, now I have become a blind and mysterious guy, unable to explain

to no one the small settings with which, sunk in blindness, I intend to resist;

… there are, however, slight tinkles of water and kind memories,

Amen, of course, to this long, dense and obstinate war to recover

that, another and pure, primal light.


… only, only in this way: grasp and kiss the fugitive, fire it;

… do you remember, sweetheart, when we first wanted to hold the roses

and the water, do you remember? Do you remember what happened in the garden of the chest and the two,

panicked, did we back down?

I know, I know well that from that moment we wanted to be men

and harden, but I no longer know if we still dream of setting the air on fire or if defenseless,

tumbling and roaring, we roll and fall only like stones;

… and it is that everything becomes so fragile, so elusive, ah, so futile it becomes…!

[ … because suddenly the hands and feet hurt, thudding noises are heard leaving

sad days and ballads are heard in the suburbs, and, among the acacias, gods defeated

they gather and cry]

… but you and me, sweetheart, tell me could we fall so young? Shall we silence the wind

and the bonfires that ask us to raise our hands and let ourselves die

Well who, who are you,

who are we, you and me, sweetheart? Is it that we have stopped being who we were?

… We always ran to conquer the world, to build a sun or a wisp

of grass and here we have come, preserving these bodies of trembling and anger,

of tears and continuous and violent fear …

… that’s why I call you to wars that once again save our souls and lives,

that’s why I call you to burn and I propose you again, oh friend, oh my brave and enlightened friend,

the cruel breakdown of a long and painful resurrection


… my bodies and days may be defeated,

the fires built with cherry afternoons and the dim lights with which I officiated

in the light;

… love, friendship, passion may be taken from me,

and make me roar like a pebble or tin drum until I disappear

and lose all vestige with which I was,

may, may occur;

… for a moment, one senses that outrage and defeat are growing,

and that the birds, blind and bewildered, practically dead, are going to fall

irretrievably against the immense ungodliness of the ground;

for that, who, who can reproach me that my heart ever screams,

who who despairs, and who who sings, who.


… why should the world see you with eyes of shining amphorae

and not with the eyes of a donkey on scorched crops and dragging millennia of hunger;

why should I not look at you now on the rotten clay of roads,

Why, I mean, I wouldn’t, just when the flies are raging

and the air sounds with the buzz of death among the sun, dung and puddles,

If you go like hides full of dry stitches of donkeys and men,

why, why – I insist – should I look at you differently, even if you don’t know it and you are princes,

since some day, and not in vain, that you are healed, you will have to stop the sun

and save forever the individual, and also precious and torn, united republics,

for which, truthfully and naively, beats and cries today,

– desperately –

your winged heart and mine.


… few and difficult words these

I bring;

… are the ones that passed

where fear and greed sowed their fields of sand

and salt;

… and although tired and fragile they arrive,

They are safe here

where they only respond to this reason of man and fire:

the one that hurt so much and so much when leaving.


… as long as they shackle your freedom

there is no prayer, no song, no dance;

while hunger, anguish or violence rage,

seek bread, joy, words;

while all justice is limited only to law,

gather the laws and expel them from the soul;

and while someone sets the universe on fire,

you must be the well, the pitcher and the water;

… alone, thus, you will overcome your slavery.


… that man was living plaster,

no, no, it was light;

When I saw him, it was late afternoon and, in December,

you know, the shadows arrive soon and fall to the ground,

they rush;

… I noticed him because he was losing not only his clothes

but also the skin, hair, hands;

I was truly astonished because, at the same time that it was

And disappearing down the street, the further it went the more it glowed in me and in the air,

Until, like a blue gas lighter flame, reeling and dying,

turned a corner and I lost it;

… now, when I recover his vision and I remember it, I feel that, what a divine find,

a wisp of pure silence invades my heart;

It is there where, uncertain and grave, I again contemplate him burning and marching down the street,

and as if his certainty wanted to introduce me to his madness of the light with which he went,

the one that is never described, nor has a deferential name, when it is cited, with full meaning,

to the strict and upright ear of the total crowd of barren passers-by: martyrs, automatons and the dead.

where a humble ATTENTION

… if the heart wanted to love and could not;

If your intuition broke and reason regained the absolute power of truth,

then let’s get ready to cry, because the age of winter and monsters will have arrived,

and next to them, against the windows, they will come to strike viciously with sordidness and fury;

… ah, nevertheless the Sun of Life will return, and, one by one, it will raise each snowflake

and each drop of rain as carved, as dazzling pearls of wisdom;

… therefore, and finally, hope;

Don’t we know that what gives pain no longer dies?

Well what, what is light?

= = =



1 – Live and not live

2 – Should be able

3 – Ceremonial of one’s absence

4 – Boost

5 – The Fates

6 – Enter and exit the chest

7 – The war and the road

8 – Towards the age of air

9 – Swords of Justice

10 – For us, the afflicted

11 – Project: back

12 – Rebuild things

13 – Oh dear

14 – The war that happened and we did not see

15 – Cosmic Dialogue

16 – The price

17 – Someone is calling

18 – Living Revolution

19 – Silence and trembling

20 – Celebration of the night of the wind

21 – Of patience and brevity

22 – Poetry: building fire

23 – Spirit of reason


… hard is the light and deep is its truth,

and because of this, may our doubts and debts to love be settled, may it heal and guide us,

and already, touched by him, he covers our bodies with his gold oils to be able to resist

the rush and ravages of darkness;

… because like a rain of stones and wounds assail us and mercilessly cross the days,

with a strangled cry they roar like a blow to honor, like a mortal song of rust,

which genocide and oppression of souls, those of all;

… because, time and time again, someone has to go to the Super or El Corte Inglés,

or go through the court or the bank, or through the Treasury, or through Traffic …;

yes, of course, inevitably someone must pass;

but now, at home, with old puses and exalted fury,

our own failures meet each other with obscenities and hatred,

with revenge, with executive fines and curses for everything and against everything;

… that’s why, when the day returns, there is always someone who, when looking at it,

feel fear or unbearable terror, because again someone must return

to the Super or to El Corte Inglés, to the court or to the bank, or to Traffic, or to the Treasury;

… one of them, drowned by fear and laughter at the same time, said:

“… and, above all, I had to brake hard, get out of the car and help him cross the street;

It doesn’t screw you, the bastard, with the scare he gave me!

No, no, if he wanted me to kill him ”…!


… by now, you should be able to write a beautiful poem,

suitable to extract in pure pieces so many years, put them together,

make them look at each other and then resurrect and resurrect them

to be able to take them consciously to the sun table;

… but I do not know; one always expects something strange, a delicacy for example,

something divine and from the south, from beyond, living fire and water,

even more;

… because with fatigued feet and bowed arms,

from among the very scarce scab torn from the earth and the heart,

we always hope that we have saved and fused together a pearl of the sea and a glint from heaven;

… Yes, thread by thread and piece by piece should be able to instruct minimal blood flow,

a meager living amazement, or perhaps less, perhaps only articulating the wind, light, lightness and faith

with which I could bring to be a few words,


… and it is that, believe me, achieving this is not easy;

Those who came from far away and had to hold their breath know it well

facing brutal memory lapses;

and better still know those who did not even die because their lives were not persecuted

and when they left they left their clothes, their chairs and shoes as traces of a gift

that still fascinates mortals;

… well, I should even be able to build a flower and give it to him,.

It would be a beautiful way to love them, to show them my part, well that little,


… There is always something inside oneself that intrigues and absent, that is scary,

something that penetrates the mirrors and retains and hides the terrible answer;

the look senses it in the glass, knows that while the doubt of knowing who we are lasts,

we will go in the secrecy of the name, under the costume of the steps and the eyes,

sheltered from the ductile sound of words;

… and, probably, one of those blunt and definitive days when we get to say

«Okay, uncle, and I won’t pass from here because it’s okay with so much milk and sucking,

and here zero period ”,

probably that day, I mean, let’s walk into the mirror with anger raised,

well disposed not only to look for us

but to destroy us;

… However, it is very possible that we suddenly find ourselves in there,

circling and gone forever;

as if madness had opened another reason and urged, in return,

the certain and inexorable payment of this subtle and transitory absence.


… enter, be mine, by the dark of the sun,

that I have to cross the burning sea and take the boat of life to a new port;

come and tighten to the chest, to the heat of the blood, to this little truth that we have found

between death and smoke through merciless and smoky battlefields;

no loneliness will question your arm or your sword,

nor can your reason and faith overcome any pain that emanates from your strength;

… partner, hear me well at this moment: it is cold tonight and the moon, blind,

he is throwing shade and stones against the garden of the soul;

But no, do not hide, we will go out to die, and later, aware of death,

We will let this impulse full of leaves and silences call us

to return to the fight and be able to get one more day, partner, or a while,

a while more just with which to urge and urge freedom.


… it has already hurt so much on this side of the air to the affront of knowledge

and the moments that they want to live are evaded as soon as possible…;

no, I can’t institute myself like that;

Where is the hidden clumsiness, the endless sword

that is demolishing without deadlines or measures creeds, age and exact drawings

of the hands?

Where, in what situation and day does this dispossession and suffering begin,

where does being take refuge?

And how, how is this, that I cannot establish a living compendium

and order my warriors?

Is my god of salt and rain dead

and can’t defend me?

… No, there is no rancor and there is no other acrimony than this emotion, this conscious song of pain;

… Is it that I have not seen Las Parcas adjust battles and instruct with death?

a thousand trails of oblivion?

And is it not true, too, that a thread of voice arises that touches our lives

and in the shadow he calls us and names us for the first time?


… It is true that any man is a star, and a sea, and also a swarm of death and light,

of light and death,

and it is, it is true;

… in our dense, deep and dark moments, when the sky and the earth moan they rise

frozen fumes of loneliness and fear;

when one has returned to the chest by devastation and kept in it strength, reason and joy

and there they remain with their minds closed, waiting for the apocalypse or conclusion of the world,

It is when in supreme effort and exorbitant eyes for so much and so much dying,

the soul goes out to its gate and barely manages to ask the body why is its pulse beating, why is it raining

or why does he still resurrect himself and himself

and the sun shines;

… And if the amazement is great, the occasion is great;

The last time I said to myself: “wake up, my soul, and listen to the eternal light, well, this one you see,

it is the sublime moment of rebirth and reconstruction of the world ”;

so filled with courage and grief, I decided to go out to fight and perhaps to see and understand

to finally be able to die, and now, without filthy ballast, to be able to return without hatred or rancor.


… fallen to the ground, wounded and dismembered, I rebuild myself, I look at the sky and ask for a divine sign,

but my head is lead, my body and feet are lead,

but also the sea, the land, the south,

and I stagger, I stagger and fall again to dream,

dream deeply;

… and the dream is a fight between fire in shadows, between fire and water,

between gods and men of fire and mist, of mud and light:

it is «Eden»;

… and I wake up, and when I want to return to him, a hundred cherubs raise their sword

and I am expelled to resurrect here;

finally, hurt and conscious, I remember the battle and the long and bloody war

to win yet;

… air, I look for air and a wisp of peace through my chest so that I can die better;

I need to temper a sword of love and fire that shudders me to be;

oh, my soul, what a task this is to build a diamond with the weakness of a rose,

how arduous, how arduous and hard it is;

but, at the same time, what a privilege, what an honor, what a most loving pleasure.


… companions, come out with me and let me share the way, I want to see you shine

one by one while with faith and reason we move beyond the borders of time,

beyond, towards the fate of living death;

… Have you not seen, then, that it is he – the genius – who awakens us,

and to the rhythm of suns and equinoxes it comes to rise to conquer the air and the earth,

bend eternity and build with it the common altar, that of gods and men …?

… therefore, what are we waiting for, what other people’s splendor if we are not able to break into

and take out an eternal god from within to clean him, instruct him and recognize his right

to walk and run?

… Or if we are capable, comrades, or if we are capable, who of you will confirm it?

… Look, look and contemplate the earth and the stars;

all of it – how could Whitman sing –

it is not worth more than what is in the apex of our heart;

more than women and men our blood book is turning us into gods so truthful

like those who make churches, like those who live on stones or those who already scream and run through the squares;

as such, we are and are;

… Together we have died many times and many others we have come to Spain, Europe, the world,

and again we must prepare ourselves to reinvent and build luminous stelae and paths;

go out, then, and come with me;

no, this is not a simple courtesy invitation.


… More, higher than the highest justice is grace;

ah, grace, the one that is never blind, because could they be true blinds,

– Well, for some they are – to repent, restore and reform the course of life?

… Then what will you exclaim when I invoke and ask for forgiveness and oblivion together,

Tell me, what will you say, where can you flee?

because you will have a desolate memory, yes, but forgetting that I speak not only clears

and understands, also washes and dignifies the heart, how else can men

could they be recognized and protected in men, how?

… thus, oh natural gifts, human lights that raise reason to the home of the gods,

teach us how to apprehend and bring from there [where our lives drink] that breath of power and air,

that celestial chip, a song that we carry inside and that is shedding showers of love, strength and glory;

… And if you already know grace, go out into the new time and, swiftly, invoke forgiveness and oblivion;

pure, they never demand the ablation of the past, but one day they will seem imperfect and you will wonder:

… Then, what did we ask there, who, who were we?


… Can the pain be so dense, so deep and devastating, so tenacious and abrasive,

that you may never find words of justice for the raw wounds of your soul,

or if…?

[… Is when the body tastes like gall, dejection and unusual sadness and distance, hard loneliness,

when the mind sounds like death and a hoarse murmur, hurt and stopped in time;

occurs when breathing oppresses and also smell, and cough, and even move the hands because everything

has started to scream and has become anguish and anguish, and it hurts without measure because a cruel asphyxia

and galloping it harasses the conscience to encircle it, look at it head on and destroy it]

… Ah, unholy fight! but why, why should we die?

Are we so slaves and indolent to the dragon of bodies,

these, those who instruct and vomit pus and shadow?

… so:

What strange power – I say – can steer the sails of your ship, eh, Captain?

– tell me, answer me –

Well, where did you succumb or in whose hands have you left them?

Well, if necessary wake up, get up and do not give up, ah, never, the light of this trip;

but, first, you must stop and listen carefully, since under deep waves of pain

you must hear and understand the harshest criticisms of these implacable gods of ours,

the God of Knowledge and the God of Wisdom, whom, however, without light we cannot distinguish;

… And, if you comply with this, equanimous and free you will arrive at port;

… Don’t listen to me, theirs are the words.

project: BACK

… up I look from the shoal, from the winery of the world,

from where the universe ends in forges and pain, from the exact end of the abyss;

Here the earth adhered to the fire weighs, the water, the air, the darkness weigh,

and it weighs, it weighs to get up and also to walk and look, fixate and light up from within,

contemplate the high;

… I know that I have fallen from beyond the sky and that my spirit is armed with ancient lights

of stones and flowers, of animals / man and wrong words to succeed,

and for that, no, Darwin’s bodies / mud are no longer useful to me;

How could I survive and climb so high if I have been flesh and in the fight I will be so weak;

no, no longer, not you …;

… I seek in myself, therefore, old wounds, living tools / sources, experiences,

pure troughs with which the will builds its power, and already, strengthened and strengthened,

return home new and clean;

… as a postmodern ETE / man or man / ETE, I claim my place at the height,

yours, that of the paroxysm of light without this intense and long scourge of dead death;

… With reason, work and faith, in this hour I deposit being;

and listen, listen with me how pleasant the silence is.


… about London neighborhoods, the truth fades, is diluted, and also about Paris and Berlin,

and Rome, and Madrid;

More than in the US, it is in Europe where the battles are brewing:

on his feet and stomach, on his heart;

In the West it was long believed that roses of pain were nothing more than roses of pain;

And so, with the euro at a party, we dress for a party, but also in fear and at dawn,

without dawn and prostituted the day,

and so lightly and cowardly;

… under the moon, how the owl silently observes the movements and features of its prey,

how he articulates his power in the eyes and encircles them completely over what is to give him life;

… Periodically and gradually the darkness and the light defame each other, stop, step by step,

re-feed the sun and rebuild the roses;

but roses, like roses, were never eternal;

… From the US will be those from Europe,

oh, and also the last ones.


… when winter arrives, oh treasure, we have gone inside to plant little flowers

in the hands, in the arms, in the heart;

darkness is the blind rage of the world against three, four and five in the afternoon,

but also against ten, eleven and twelve at night because it is a hard fist

that takes them, pulses them and destroys them;

And in the face of more harassment and destruction, ah, we’ve seen it

deeper they pluck our flowers;

let’s watch them sprout and grow in our blood and in the color of life,

on the forces and echoes of our houses;

… We know well that darkness ignores his ignorance, hence compassion and help,

and hence the sublime silence and light that radiate through the squares at dawn;

… We will go out to the feast of the sun and, in the vain of its shadow, we will look for friends and enemies;

We will sow, at last, oh, treasure, oh dear one, our simple flowers,

on the ground and in the sea.


[West, literary and posthumous anagram]

… few knew – they were those who ignored and set aside – how and why in the soul of the West

sadness had settled irreversibly;

From North to South, from East to West on planes, buses and trains, not even a word of love,

a smile, and also in the Metro, in theaters and in operas,

at dances or on the beaches …

… Its long-lived technological people, through this power, managed to enjoy copious

and unspeakably of being, for by dint of coldly debating and reasoning,

– without ever stopping to look back –

for centuries and centuries they marched with their god / knowledge forward;

For this reason they already managed to dominate the cusps of the air or the chasms of the earth;

but it was true that when they returned they did it sadly,

and that the meetings to celebrate the triumphs had actually been transformed

in tasteless and unfathomable conventions of ruin and sadness;

… Hence, when in a massive way they began to commit suicide and commit suicide,

quickly instruct conferences and forums, encouraging enthusiasm and joy;

even, in order to program and remedy such a unique tragedy,

they will investigate with rigor and ingenuity the alleged gene of continuous happiness;

… Ariadna’s individuals – ah, almost all of them – ended up taking their own lives,

or they died deaf and blind with their faces against walls and walls of the soul,

immersed in the bitter silence of a social and indescribable loneliness;

… Yes, technically and biologically they became perfect,

but they would have to return nevertheless because someone, at the very moment of dying,

he dared to mediate for them and asked saying:

“… Oh beloved light, have compassion and cleanse our eyes,

light our hearts and return us to the sea ”.

… And today, who are they…?

nobody, nobody knows;

They have been looking for a long time.


– … who are you and where do you come from?

… I was reborn in Vecilla de la Polvorosa, but I don’t know who I am or where I come from;

my village is very small, a crumb in the salt of the Earth;

… maybe you mean to say about God, a crumb in the salt of God …

… In the salt of God, yes, of God;

oh, sorry, sorry …

— [stop]

… What a deep silence is this how you observe or hear your sun or the suns,

lost in the heart?

… Ah, the suns, all the suns!

sometimes they are too many and I can’t imagine them,

feel them, touch them, bring them …

Have you tried to make streets, railways, cars, bridges …?

… Yes, but I have not yet managed to build modern avenues;

I’m looking for my voice in your light or lights

those that give me the primordial force of Life;

… Ah Orion, Orion, the Life you say;

then go and go for it;

why, why have you feared and are still afraid to cross it.


… be mine, rebel and help me build my souls, I need to get the flower and light

of the air and the earth, and that of passion [that of water]

help me, help me to express in this enormous hour the sublime determination to die

as if I were a true hero, because I am not;

I have bones of soft sand, the senses hurt me and the intelligence grows in me,


… this morning, when the sky was still only the germ of alabaster and shadow on the crystals,

when the clock of life rang and I had to decide yes or no in front of the cry out there,

I knew that I would have to fight despair and this frightening weakness in the dense

and terrible hours;

… about it, being mine, more than once we have spoken, but it was never so late and conscience snores

to come and respond;

you probably fear death too, or maybe you feel the tremor that uncertainty inflicts

when finally yielding and giving faithful passage to the certainties;

… so help me, help me face this severe and irreducible price

that today demands the hard struggle of the resurrection.


… Mercy, love, mercy!

who you are… ? … Are you the devil or a child of the devil?

I’m not a man;

… a man ! Are you still men? Where are you talking to me from?

identify yourself;

… open for God, open me, I’m about to die!

To die… ? What is dying Are you on Earth, perhaps?

I am inside myself and I have entered a deep and dark place,

I have seen death;

well then don’t despair and listen to me:

push yourself, fix your eyes and look even more inside,

and, even if it hurts, do it, make an effort and keep looking …

– ah, it doesn’t matter anymore! I see them, I see them;

My heart is broken,

but there are the roses;

finally, finally …


… this revolution, so meager in life and in words,

It is exclusively intimate, it is my belligerence, love put to the point

of a truth that establishes and resolves more truth;

… and I tremble because I cannot rescue from the entrails of man

my infinite power, from there, where the hordes and hurricanes of blood take place

their terrible battles of light and death;

… Don’t believe in revolutions today,

Well, revolutions must be carried

well kept,

ready to help without helping in the middle of life

and from the streets;

… Having a living revolution is the greatest effort,

and not in vain, I also say, the greatest of miracles.


… if I didn’t know that I can’t reach all the pain, abandonment and silence

that life contains, I would not know that this summer is beautiful, nor that the light rises

and travel this moment like a recent and moved god;

this pleasure disturbs me like usury in the blood,

the one that I feel inside like burning my body, like watering love

so that I don’t die,

Well, there will always, always be intimate stars that we will never know why they shine;

… but there is so much evidence and light this afternoon, and so much being, rapture and falling in love,

that it is useless against this deluge of living silence to persist and persist in dying;

they really touch me and speak;

I have your trembling


… hearing a stalk of sadness shiver,

the stopped wind;

as in my soul she heard,.

and between the gold and the cry in which an instant

it is,


and the lip of the night

acting as the redeeming dawn of the world;

… The wind gravitates, and, still doubting, triumphant and with a fierce roar,

take flight and command joy.


… the walls of the old factories are full of losing phrases:

“No to regulation”, “no to layoffs”, “you will not close a workshop”;

[… For collecting infinity,

for taking it away and that the heart is not like frozen crying

for workshops and factories with which to remember that the lost lost,

– those of then, those of now –

and for not counting them, and for not drying up the sea …]

… the phrases and their walls should never disappear

because the pain does not disappear and you have to give the heroic cry its wall,

his femininity and manhood, and leave it there for a time as a flag of oppression,.

and fight, and freedom,

as if it were a psalm that was born to be read on all altars and mornings

on the threshold of dawn;

… and because all beings, whether we know it or not, need walls and screams

with which to crash and shake with fear, despair and fury,

the huge, the terrible onslaught of life.


… in simple things I have kept a dove flight,

the nectar of the dew

and the sea of ​​time;

… and again, by the clay,

– once again – I have picked up pebbles and put them there,

next to life, to know that there is still patience,

the faithful knowledge with which to open the suns and the shells;

… something will have to do with brevity,

Well, we leave witnesses on the shore

here and there flashes, stripes, glitters …

… How difficult to describe an image and be inside.

POETRY: building fire

… Between intense lights I engender this poem;

cerebral flames I feel enter the heart and hurt it, transcend it;

foals of light on the Net, the words ride;

… a poem is pure fire,

a devouring sun that only living water measures and paces;

… When the spirit burns the being and in it declares the forces and powers burning,

irremediably the soul faces its premature deaths, and conflagrations of gods,

and huge concerts of sounds invoking in chords the first fruits of the world;

… tonight, be mine, be ready and come to be reborn again,


… be mine, do you hear what the heart asks …?

«If we will be able to feel the terrifying beat of the world

and express it inside and outside after a cry of blood ”;

… Because, perhaps, we can the fallen and illiterate, those of desperate mind,

the simple, crude and vulgar, servants and villains, gather the force of that cry and establish hope?

… And we will shed the cruel bondage of pain and with our own carnal light

can we look at the glare from above?

But what about the crowded buses and trains at dawn, under the orders of the master

and with dignity in ruins, tell me, oh wise spirit of reason,

Can we redeem them after that huge and deep cry?

… Here we are all men and women, those from North and South, those from East and West gathered,

crying out and resurrecting, determined to replace for the XXI the terrible shell of disgrace

for the just, exquisite and tender white stone;

and this even if someone, once again, is willing to hurt us and take it away from us as it always was;

… There will always, always be bandits and they will always arrive.

== =



1 – First dialogue with the mother

2 – Progress, honor, freedom

3 – Violets and roses

4 – Going back is not about falling and dying

5 – Seek him with earnest heart

6 – Universal commitment

7 – Reflection before the twilight

8 – From the heart of the sun

9 – The personality to your inner spirit

10 – Second dialogue with the mother

11- Triumph of the spirit

12 – divine lovers

13 – XXI century (introspection)

14 – Third dialogue with the mother

15 – Consciousness and virtue

16 – Who we are

17 – From the lights

18 – This endless rattle of the sea

19 – Evoking Osiris

20 – Rapture and rain


[… In strict appearance, and without knowing why,

children’s lives are suddenly turned into heinous stories;

So they break the rules and rhythms, adulterating and dethroning time,

and a pleiad of stones falls down the mountain intimidating

rudely the residue of age, faith and heart]

mother, why does the light sing …?

son does the light sing …?

yes, yes he sang, mother; when you were crying it came to your eyes

and she sang a very, very beautiful song, I heard it;

honey, dad died yesterday and we’ll have to go …

Where, where, mother …?

I don’t know, baby, I don’t know; but come and don’t cry, don’t cry now, love;

mother, mother, look, the light is singing again, look at yourself in the mirror;

listen, listen, do you hear it now …? Do you hear her, mother …?


… will we be waiting for that vestal light – gold and dew –

the one that educates and calms, the one that instructs the heart,

the one that airs and cleans it?

[The Lord touches my shoulder and resolutely I turn around and say: where are you, Lord?

just as roses at dawn come down from the sun

and the sea cries out loud and rumbles with anger and boldness]

… And for a moment I am blind, for a moment;

[… Like northern lights, the echoes of love are conclaves of light

that leave fires and living essences in the air, signal and power to man,

and also progress, and also honor, and strength, and freedom]


… Before poppies and branches lit the forehead of summer,

before, long before, I saw your soul;

[It was, as you came, light screaming, permeating the avenue with thirst for love,

of life]

… and thus she wounded me, like aurora illuminating the sea with all the fires,.

forges and instruments in which the spirit drinks and is;

so, feeling pure fire on its burning curb,

my strength was immolated seeing you in me pure and on fire;

… Oh beloved, I name you and I commemorate you today;

my mind and heart see you and keep you clean;

fear not, then, and remember me;

and if in you you glimpse my soul, in it you will hear that I love you;

[… In its sacred crypts man keeps the bread that will encourage the furies

or gods of his house;

… therefore, and now, without return, where will I put the violets!

but above all, tell me, my beloved, where and how will I institute roses for you!]


[… From the Levante dock in Torrevieja;

July – 2007]


[… From the Levante dock in Torrevieja;

July – 2007]

… On the god and the firmament the sea, the sun, the creation are burning;

and deep and high, where night and evening break, birds of fire flutter

and they fight against their dense shadows and the very fire of their being;

… and here, sitting, containing the life and rhythms of the world,

[silence and eternity for a weightless moment

and dead and alive I, in flight, transcended perhaps]

levity is an aerial sign, a sidereal rapture in which the soul finds

torn veils through which to enter and intimidate the earthly peace of God and destroy it;

… and if returning does not consist of falling or dying, becoming material and feeling hungry and making noise,

Will they later give peace to the heart, will they be able to ignite it, re-seed it

of this moment …?

… The 20 of space-time: footsteps sound through the streets to urgencies and greed,

and the minutes, like precious rubies of life, narrow, expand and embrace indescribably

through the mortal city of fear and veins;

[then a deep, abysmal silence is installed that I am aware of

and from which I do not want to return;

… to be able to speak is a true miracle]


… oh,

if when walking next to this voice and soul of mine,

someone hears the spirit lamp moan and burn,

I would not open the doors wide for him even at the cost of breaking down the verdigris,

the curb of being and this temporary end of the stone …

… companions, take the light and go out, rebel and strike the immaterial sky,

and if no one answers, then grab the heart with anxiety and knock on it, speak to it,

speak to him with a lively thirst, with force, with legitimate and most pure passion;

… Oh friends, don’t give up or resign yourself;

please, no, don’t let your dreams and your hands finally die;

There is so much to do …!


“… If the arms and shoulders of comrades support the vault of the world,

with atoms of fire they instruct the light of the universe ”;

… but, and I, here, busy with coughs and wars, with the sickle raised, threatening,

tell me, will I be of any use …?

because could my reason be hurt with love and it be hurt by the brilliance of the idea?

… and the white stone of life, who will make it …? And how will I cure the cough and lay

weapons and wars if the sickle has been turned into excessive words and gestures

and flies through my blood causing huge dramas, storms and ruins …?

… more than at the top, deep down I look and my rust has no end;

therefore… can the companions resist…? Will I be able to be faithful and authorize the fire

of my worlds, those of which I have to die while I build a simple rose petal?

… But oh, oh my, well how, how to do it, how and how to get there.


[… If sunset clouds arise from the depth of the air

and from the south of the world rises and floats the primordial gift of the dark stone,

Does not the sun take them, however, summarize them and melt them in beautiful pools

of sea and fire]

… be mine, this very now, the one you contemplate, will you remember him and his time?

And when a son of eternity passes and the flow of unnamed and pure light

you run through the bundle of worlds, will you look into yourself, into your depth, and will you see yourself?

Will you remember and still feel here?

[… It is a cruel time; the wound goes from part to part and will last;

However, tell me, oh mourning and crying that you transcend everything to life,

When that happens, what beautiful Cinderella will come to collect the flower then,

the very pure one, the one you still don’t see?

… Being mine, at this moment you are a man; So touch and feel your carnal warmth, the breeze,

the meager freedom you have achieved to take your spear and become God]

… the future is long, love, it is long,

and perhaps you need this slight tremor today, the one you feel when you are still mortal;

but tell me, can you or will you want to take it …?


… the light of dawn I look with my earthly eyes,

but that other one, the one that flows from the heart of the sun, what eyes see it,

what skin perceives it or in what part or condition of life or death

Does my being have to touch in order to feel its virtue of fire and snow?

… woe is me, still poor, naked and blind, shivering in the chest disciplinary room

and circling before the oppression of the south and before the father / mother stones

from the heart I am…;

[… I know that age does not destroy us,

that the river of life rises and falls describing its upright and immortal routes with fire,

and that men / women of pure love offer their harvest of wheat daily,

and that cultivated, ground and cooked, they raise it to the light;

I know]

… But I, who attended with you the occasion of the beginning and The Word,

Have I returned and retaken the first afflictions of my Ahab?

So where, where am I?



… And I heard them tell you: “… resurrect yourself instant by instant and limb by limb;

meanwhile, don’t try to go home, you won’t be able to enter ”;

… Oh Prince, I, who am in you your feet and your hands, your chest,

your waist and sex, your darkness, tell me are you going to kill me …?

Can I not invoke your hold, the heat of the blood,

and also aspire to the splendor of the light?

… sometime, Prince, I remember the stone, the air and the sea that I was

and there is hardly anything left; … What, then, has become of me, Prince,

that at the same time was your arm and your brilliance, your strength …? tell me have you killed me

or have I died or have we died?

ah, who are we really, my Lord, who, who are we!

Why do you leave me in such harsh slavery, why are you silent now,

you – my only source of heat – don’t you want to answer me?

“… Yes; I will dress you in the best of my suits and on your finger you will have the gold ring,

you will aspire to God and I will transmute you into my soul


– … mother, if I wanted to catch the sea, could I do it …?

  … the sea ? sure, son, sure you could;

remember that you are bigger than a star and bigger than a galaxy;

son, you are like the universe;

– Like everything, everything …?

– that’s right, honey, that’s right, like all of him;

– … mother, and have you ever thought of lighting the sea with a match …?

I, I do;

-… then do it, son, do it;

the sea are only wisps of light in many, many drops of water;

– Yes, mother, but is the sea also God …?

– ah, too, son, too, it is too, too.


… and so they fell



battlements and towers,

parade grounds,

the pain and oppression of the night,

and so, so the opacity,

the kingdom;

… Are you here, my soul, where I still hear you?

Where the madness of the sea no longer exists and the light strikes us calling

by our own new names…?

… Come out, then, and, before leaving, from the bastion of the air let us contemplate being:

its old rusty ruins, its battlefields, the pus and smoke,

the desolation;

[… Once again it has happened, love, it has happened;

but the damage of the spears is less and calm, it is already another,

and now, it hurts different]


Eye of Love, where are you …?

here I am, Eye of Law, in the light;

in the light ? And what have you gone to light?

to breathe, Ojo de Ley, to breathe;

To breathe? ah, Eye of Love, my roses are drying up;

… They are not drying up, Eye of Law; look up;

ah, Eye of Love, are those my roses …?

They are, Eye of Law, they are; go up and take them; here is your water.

21st CENTURY (introspection)

… There was and is that difficulty and astonishment for knowing things;

and there was and is a distance between courage and sword,

between faith and reason,

between duty and war;

and between and above all, there will still be decay, loss and total pain,

lonely sadness;

… We are peoples still cursed by us


groups with souls without souls, towns of graves and demolition,

freezing rain;

not for nothing did selfishness contrive with our lives little minds,

little homelands, little hearts;

… and if we looked closely, we would still see that from time to time time stops

and tear down the walls, wash us, count us and give other names,

another form and heart, another suffering and another faith;

.. no one can escape his truth, but he can fight in front of the dark sea

in which it is;

[except those who want to die, who will die twice and will do so with damage and rigor

because that’s how it is and that’s how it will be]


mother, what you love me, how big is it …?

How big…? you will see, son, well, like this house;

no, no, more, much more, darling, like all the Earth;

the earth…! Is the Earth very big, mother?

Well, it’s as if you started walking, walking and walking …

but, mother, what if the earth ends …?


… Desert man, what are you coming for?

I look for suffering;

… suffering ? ah misfortune of the world, do you bring evil with you?

I bring water and fire and I want to live …

Live, you say …!

live, yes; Well, isn’t this Hamlet’s house, isn’t he …?

… ah, Hamlet, Hamlet! long gone;

but you, here what do you intend, to be or not to be …?

I have already been and I want to continue being,

I bring the offering;

then I will open the doors for you, but remember that you will have to burn yourself;

and if in the end you are thirsty, go upstairs, get light and don’t waste water;

Now come in, then, that’s the condition.


… if ever you, man or woman, asked for you

in this house of sun and south, because you would like to know who you are,

Would you be prepared for the deepest of desolations?

but, and also, if you wanted to know who you have been,

Would you really be willing to make a camel go through the depth of a needle …?

… And what camel, and what depth, and what needle? you would say maybe;

and you probably consumed your life remodeling needles, hollows and camels;

… And you would die;

… And you would come back here;

… And again the courage face to face with the being, with the sun and the south,

and your own deity reinterpreting the cold and hard complaint of living;

… and if you heard proclaiming at last that only pain awaits you,

Ah then, heavens broken, displayed the majesty of the spirit,

you must get into yourself, and by dint of pain and dint of living

[- Well, you will die and rise again by dying -]

under the bow and the storm, like a wounded and fascinated beast, you will,

you can still recognize yourself;

… and that, that you will be.


… friend: and from here you will hear me,

from the lights;

… because time and time again you will be horrified to set fire and hear the sea crackle

[- the one with the heart -]

and with a sail in the wind, on high,

Where will you go, then, tell me, where will you want to go …?

[… This is my home, my light and sword,

but also your courage and blood,

your decision;

… this way you will cross]

… the days / feast and the bones / foundation will fall and love will fall,

but these lights of mine will wait for you unceasingly;

… And you will drink water and fire, sea on fire;

… And already, ardently alive, that the world impregnates with directions and lights.


… where the water lost with the noise and the fire turned off,

What to live on?

How to find, collect and give to the soul the good that is fallen

and rolling and breaking …?

How, amid all the horror, to polish, to restore the lip,

and how, how – tell me – save the heart?

[… I came from permanent triumph and brilliance:

those of the Phoenix without a tithe to die]

… And now, and here, where there is disaster, fatigue and ruin with damage and punishment,

– because irreversibility is hard and stopped time –

here – I say – with what and why fight, and against what or against whom …?

… a devouring cold is turning off the primal lights of life

and it is difficult to breathe, and be, and even think;

[… Is it possible that from this prostration springs of serenity can already flow,

already of knowledge or already of light?]

… but this appearance of the endless rattle of the sea is icy and immense.


… when burning I cross through the agraz of being,

between a world on fire the god roars;

there are pieces of instants, hours, years and ages rolling, purifying,

there are screams of pain and shadows fleeing, noise and sorrow,

and forces that came from the root of time to destroy me

and cover my chest and be total ruin and thirst;

… While this is happening, I stop and shelter the body on a park bench

because I’m losing my feet and hands, my waist, my face, my passion,

and the wind carries them away;

Cars pass but they are not cars, nor are birds birds,

nor are the roses in the garden roses;

and there is no hostility or blasphemous orders, only body fallen and defeated

of my beloved and old being, the one with whom I undertook a deep, serious and long journey

for the land of stone and resurrection;

… Like Osiris, when the night closes, my soul will seek and collect its treasures

and hiding them he will go;

… but before, the afternoon dismembered – where the sun shines, gilds and still resists –

the birds swirl and there I go;

… And no, there will be no fear; light always liberates.


[short song]

[… the silence clears

in deep placidity the intimate room;

… Inside, deep inside, flowers of love watch and sing, shine,

and her voice of divine sea instructs peace and fire,.

and living rain, and living air;

… built, loneliness is a winged temple

in which the being and the age of the heart gravitate:

the light of the soul]

… because if you, my god – I say – decided to die in me and me and go to your home of light,

you could do it ? Ah, you can, you can…!; but tell me, Lord:

Could then this humble song honor the utter ubiquity

and report of the spirit? Could, tell me, could …?


… when burning I cross through the agraz of being,

between a world on fire the god roars;

there are pieces of moments, hours, years and ages rolling,

purifying, there are screams of pain and shadow fleeing, noise and pain,

and forces that came from the root of time to destroy me

and cover my chest, and be total ruin, and thirst;

… While this is happening, I stop and shelter the body on a park bench

because I’m losing my feet and hands, my waist, my face, my passion,

and the wind carries them away;

Cars pass but they are not cars, nor are birds birds,

nor are the roses in the garden roses;

and there is no hostility or blasphemous orders, only body fallen and defeated

of my beloved and old being, the one with whom I undertook a deep, serious and long journey

for the land of stone and resurrection;

… Like Osiris, when the night closes, my soul will seek and collect its treasures

and hiding them he will go;

… but before, the afternoon dismembered – where the sun shines, gilds and still resists –

the birds swirl and there I go;

… And no, there will be no fear;

light always liberates.

= = =



1 – … who, who’s calling, who’s there?

2 – Belonging and freedom

3 – Redeeming Heaven and Fury

4 – retrace and rebuild path

5 – Let’s go back to Naím, mother

6 – It’s a lightning bolt

7 – The heat of the sky today

8 – The city visitor

9 – Partner, we come from far away

10 – Grail Flower

11 – Lilies and Roses (in memoriam)

12 – 9 verses of the soul in love

13 – From God or Fresh Water

14 – About the return

15 – Under the Eye of the Cyclops

16 – Through apple orchards and corn fields

17 – Rainwater Burning

18- I urge the heart

19 – In a sun or a rose

20 – Women and men

21 – Freedom Again

22 – Arre, arre, old horse

23 – Battlefield

24 – Juan’s house

25 – The Night and the Lilies


[in the big question]

“… From among living forces and lights, from among great and small gods”;

listen to this dialogue hurrying the silence of mind and peace of heart,

Come and penetrate, tighten the thread of love, know it and have it,

because only, only in it, will the face and splendor of the world have its light;

… nothing is left over, nothing, because nothing is in death dead

and nothing wasted, nothing lost;

ah, not even the stench will be dull;

… in the crisis or winter cold, in the privacy of the soul,

with pain the sun rises;

but they are so deep, so sudden

his light and voice …

… sometimes, in the intercommunication of immensities, restless and scared,

vehemently the being trembles and agitates, and, trying to contrast his life,

with force and frenzy he inquires upwards: who, who is calling, who is there …?

… and only, they are only the cars of silence that pass silently and silently.


… Before you end up banishing me, I’ll be gone;

And where will you go, you gentle and stateless, where …? – you say;

remember that, like you, I had no birth;

then why should it belong to Vecilla de la Polvorosa

or Santurtzi, why Castro Urdiales, or why, why Spain or Europe…?

Will tongues add something? Will they – tell me – sex

or the color, and perhaps, ah, think it over, perhaps the creeds will …?

but, nevertheless, what about her, and freedom? Will she tell you something?

And what is freedom, Orion, before you go, tell us, what is it,

if up to here is our skin and the soul screams that up to there is our beloved country …?

It is said: where the heart is, there we will be and there we will love;

for the house is living gold and its pulses and walls are pure life;

therefore, have you already found the threshold and final limits

in what will you want and will you be?

ah, Orion, do not expose us to such deep torment or such harsh ridicule …

Well, how and why break and leave our own heart?

… Then reprove your houses of suffocation and ruin, of darkness and death,

hate them and tear them down; Before, long before, you must create freedom.


… there will be no museums for you, sweetheart, there will be no moon cries or funerals,

and no, there will be no homelands either, there will be no;

your song has become air and burns, on what, if not, live lilies and roses feed?

… Ah good friend, I heard your voice from the stone, when pain was redeeming heaven and fury;

I heard her far away, when the night split the shutters of courage of the soul, when the fear

doves were born and I kept you in my life like a wounded and lit dawn,

loving you like pure blood and water, like a beloved son with duels yet to be resolved;

… Do you remember when war and death passed through here,

the desolation also and also the sea without light and in flames?

What about oblivion? tell me do you remember when ravaging the weather from the chest,

Ignoring us, it came and went?

… We have embraced each other with passion and alone, deeply alone,

and it is in this loneliness of love where the light touches us and speaks to us in order to live and continue;

… but now better be quiet; better than lilies and roses be and intimate in immense combat;

let something stay, catch fire and save.


… resist my arms, and resist and beat, heart;

and you, dear eyes, lift up your fatigue and walk ahead,

be our guide between storms and shadows of sun and sea;

… do you remember when we started our way and without the sword of the soul

we dare to build our light of the world on a darme

of fog ?

Do you remember how pain came knocking down and dissipating forces,

the bread, the peace and the brightness of the days, do you remember how, how he killed?

Will you then remember the darkness, do you remember it?

… Today he is back, today he is here;

therefore will you want to defend with me the white stone, the meager temple,

our blade of fire and water?

… my beloved children and honored companions, remember also

which is just the pain had, well how, how else can we get

the enormous vision, the splendor of life?

… retrace and rebuild the path, it has always been an ineffable endeavor,

but who assumes the deep tears, who, who the terrible desolation that awaits …


… broken the glass and spilled the sea,

the voice broken and fallen, the skins broken and the courage of the heart impeded,

Who will discover the roses and who their light?

but above all who love?

… Because if my faith contained only word, feeling or desire,

what would become of me, what would be …

… Everything has been given and nothing defended, not even the body,

not even the truth, so immersed in silence, so serious, so inaccessible,

so terrible still and alone;

However, there is always some old adherence, yes, but pure, always,

How if the one that brought us together and lived with and in our lives did not emerge,

Well, what did we do with hatred, what with resentment, what with anger …?

… let’s go back to the north of Naim, mother, maybe I have returned

and let’s find father, maybe he’s waiting for us;

Let’s go back to Naím, that the bells – do you hear them…? – they are calling and urging

to a glory that may free us from the rust and rust of our old temples;

mother, let’s go back, let’s go back and rebuild our house in Naim.


… by the clumsiest edge they tempt me and hit me with pain and evil

with a fierce roar;

my flesh opens, the temples of my soul, its vertebrae,

the deep crack that penetrating time and shadows, at the bottom, fallen,

discovers me;

… is a lightning bolt with a beastly crack, disaffection by breaking

of the one in the heart, of the one who wants to die of himself

because perhaps the forces and flashes will never return

of this huge instant / sun;

… Ah courage, ah forces that are here, ah compassion for one’s own slavery,

loved ones with which to face the seals of life or death without pomp or rancor,

Why in the end do you doubt, why, why …?

… in doubt there is the crack, the yoke, the duel and the shadow that frighten,

the unspeakable battlefield between failure, triumph and truth;

[… Ah pity the world, ah pain;

the rumble of the sky is supportive]


… today, in the midst of the crisis, the warmth of heaven would be a lettuce and chicken sandwich,

or less swollen feet, or a job, or less screaming, or less cold;

the heat of the sky could be someone looking at me for two seconds

in silence and without disgust on the bus or the subway,

Well, if I saw him and then felt peace because he managed to know

that the world can perceive me, then, and for an instant,

that heat would ascend and slide down my palate,

oh my god, it would come like a mist through my chest

and I would choose for myself to be able to lie down without the fear and anger

with which, ordinarily, insomnia bonfires burn me at night;

… No, today the heat of heaven is not here;

surely she is a murga or hustling around the bars in the area,.

as is customary when coming from the park or work;

… in any case, if I saw him walk through the door, I would say:

“No, stop, look for yourself and ask above, you have made a mistake;

this is the 2nd mezzanine; I live here; look, this is just the bass left ”.


… when you want to know a new city, traveler,

ah, don’t go straight to his heart and stop

on his feet and his pubis, on his waist and arms, on his shoulder,

reach out to them and touch them, listen to them and start coughing or spitting

if you feel like dying, but share what you carry with what the city gives and the city is;

… and no, you don’t have to denigrate time, or cry

or denial of man, no, as it would not be open the world

to strip the sea of ​​song;

… Only knows and lives, traveler, alone;

then go and enter, ascend in yourself, smell a rose and take it with you;

you will understand why it is so fragile and why its aroma dies

without reaching the dregs where you already come from;

… Traveler, if you return, try to enter the city slowly, slowly, very slowly;

jubilant, your new friends will be waiting for you.


… when you want to know a new city, traveler,

ah, don’t go straight to his heart and stop

on his feet and on his pubis, on his waist and arms, on his shoulders;

reach out to them and touch them, listen to them and start coughing or spitting

if you feel like dying, but share what the city gives and the city is;

… and no, you don’t have to denigrate time, or cry

or denial of man, no, as it would not be open the world

to strip the sea of ​​its song;

… Just live and know, traveler, just;

then go and enter, ascend in yourself, smell a rose and take it with you;

you will understand why it is so fragile and why its aroma dies

without reaching the dregs where you already come from;

… Traveler, if you return, try to enter the city slowly, slowly, very slowly;

jubilant, your new friends will be waiting for you.


… ah, my heart, come out of the passionate mist of blood and, now, clean,

speak to me in this instant and without blush of love, of the genius of life

and the frequent crying and blow of death;

I’m telling you now, when the hammers cease high and the hubbub turns

in an intimate flash of living silence, when the arms of being are exhausted

and they ask for your crops and your lights for refuge, rest and light of the soul;

… Mate, we come from far away and we both need words

of harmony, not of the old ones, not of the ones to use and kill, no;

Let us claim to know what was so much damage and agony;

for only, we only have the slight radiance that sprouted in you;

… Mate, you know that he is our hero, the paladin, the god of our spear.


[Temple of Solomon, portico]

… From the flaming sword to the modesty of the flower;

ah, Cherubim, paladins of water and fire,

divine symbol and banner, look at me:

How can I stop and lift so much pain and bankruptcy from me,

how to drain so much soot and rust, overcome so much restlessness and rebuild hands,

and how, how, tell me, overcome and transform my own darkness to where you are and where you are,

oh flower of hope

… From the conscious brothel to the exultant light, to heroic purity;

All things considered, reason almost hurts with its sordid sap,

with the emptiness that he exhales just by instituting the denial of the virgin soul;

… Father of fires, still urging on high,

living burns me;

… Mother of the waters, don’t let me die,

I need the rain


[in memoriam]

… if only they were lilies and roses

what I look at I touch and see;

if only they were light and mineral burning

Before my eyes;

and if only its fire would fill this moment and then be shot down

and diluted the beauty …

because how and where in my blood are they crying out for wanting to live,

if I only have a heart with which to carve and honor

The book of life ?

ah, the lilies and the roses …

… Why, why will this voice and memory be required of me, why!


… On clear days, when the soul vibrates and rises and rises,

– because fire and living water is –

beyond, however, in so deep and high what will he live on?

His light is so much light and so intimate between God, so pure…!

ah, but who, who could bear the beauty, the slenderness

and insistence from heaven, who?

… and then the return is a murmur, a calm fire, living joy,

divine roar of lilies and roses;

[… Containing the unity of the world, the heart almost burns]


… And we said: “now, that there is poverty, let’s appropriate the water”;

… but if you don’t give your love, if you don’t give of your god:

– water, life –

What will you live on, mate, what mortal fiction or dream?

Tell me what, what can you live on …?


… of the aftermath of dark love – that of death –

and of intimate connivance with pain, oh my soul,

I want to talk to you;

… It is difficult to invest and revert the days, years and eons with measure,

take them, rid them of acrimony and found an instance that intuits the heart

and the reason in peace accept;

… dear light, long before you inhabited the palm of my hand

slavery arrived, and moment by moment the return has become more expensive

from the god to his homeland;

… Like Ulysses, I will have to pay here and now, but I will also raise your sail here

on a sea of ​​terror with terrible and merciless songs;

… Oh, you, my soul: that, at the root of the XXI, the linen of the rigging becomes indestructible.


… Between incessant rain, look and touch time my little figure, her age,

the futility of the things I love – ours – its reverie and origins;

… close and blind, with noise, the sea finds no mirrors

and his terrible torment and uneasiness explodes against the dam;

… apart from the city, here it smells of sadness, silence and intimate noise,

to desolation and divine splashes

and with extreme clarity;

It is when she meekly drinks being her ruin and honor,.

when the huge shame of the soul occurs,

and the soul, between the damage,

feel and see;

… Like a stranger, where do I go back, where…?

the rain does not stop,

the god that I am does not cease,

and no, the sea does not stop.


… Through apple orchards and cornfields, living death;

listening, the gods woke up and cried at dawn;

… There was and will be a time when stone will be stone

and, the air, air;

but alas who will create a single grain of wheat

or the heart of the fire, and who the light and who the joy?

… through orchards and cornfields, children without honor,

the blind gods;

the city mercilessly squeezes its sea of ​​blood,

Why the sunset …?

… For San Juan the apples are made of gold and for San Gil the corn;

Why are the gods poor? but, oh who, who will despise his strength?

… Through apple orchards and cornfields, fiery gods go.


… when the water rushes, when it jumps and burns,

the hands of the wind doubt and in their lightness the echoes vibrate;

… and as it falls, the intimate fire burns

and the drops are already eternity;

… in them are the color and the glow, the song, the light,

in them it smells of splendor and interstellar field,

and man and God himself,

to eternal and certain life;

… This is the royal consecration, the renewal, the total resurrection of the world.


[… How deep is the shadow if the light is strong?]

ah, then, as I am fleeing from the hard creaking of words,

instruct me, my heart;

do it now that my reason rests on your sea blow alive

and teach me, correct me, correct me and help me unveil the living hosts

or being of matter;

… Fallen and broken wineskins and amphoras,

everything has been construction and destruction of forms, rites, vassals

of stone and flesh, men of flint, paths of shadow and death;

… Today I come from oblivion that one, that of extermination, that of fields of iron and smoke;

and today, like a ragged son of blood, I put my soul and hand in you

and I ask you to heal me;

… This is the century of knowledge, pain and hunger;

partner, turn on, then, and shine, resist and talk to me.


… what reality is in time, what opens up in it,

In what admiration would it fit, in what sphere or virtue,

for what reason?

[… It rains in the cosmos and it rains on my chest;

the dawn light trembles and in my soul there is trembling]

and if a world is exhausted and resolved, I am ready for immense and living death;

… There is so much love and friend waiting, so much!

… looking at the infinite is the din of an instant opening,

becoming me, I bring it closer to my heart and cry out for my body

as between fiery and deep galaxies;

… I carried words with which to resolve water, fire, being and their principles,

eternity, and now I bring dust of light between my tongue, and earth, and hard pus

on the side;

… what in time reality is, only, only fits in a sun or a rose:

how if not her tenderness, her affliction and modesty, how, how her spiritual and enormous seal,.

how its indestructible, its inseminal beauty.


… Because who, who walks and looks ahead, who sleeps, and who walks looking and looking back;

ahead go the wise – the humble mythicals – and close, very close, the civic warriors;

And while the idle and defeated sleep, contemplating the past, the tribals gather,

and also the indolent, and the passive, stone men and women;

… Ah, who has broken the vase and why, why;

… sometimes faith and reason go hand in hand or they don’t, so when their war flares up, and crackles, and their lights jump,

time goes down to the world like a haven, just and restorative;

but when they fight together, oh, then, how, how wisdom is poured out and shines;

… And all, all the vases will break, whichever idleness requires itself:

that thickness of being and its indolence, thus the darkness and the deep genesis of evil,

terror perhaps;

… If the light gives obedience and humility to the wise, and the sword belongs to the warrior,

what brilliance there will be in the home of the perfect servant;

… Therefore, who will look ahead and who will sleep;

but above all, and think about it well, who, who will look and look back, and who will stay, who;

… Ah the future, ah the future!


… this belonging to love, this intimate citizenship of being

and his dialogue with the spirit in the stone and the sea, ignites fierce lights,

discover constellations, it is living fire, the one that gives splendor to atavics

and extreme prisons in the souls and in my soul;

… I know that in the crucible of the world, being everything and being nothing is this quantum illusion

to think and believe that I am here being my chest, my arms,

and even the gift of desire or the simple and vague body of the mind;

… And it is not like that;

So when sweet high music is vibrate and create

my soul then senses an enormous light of full consciousness, that of unity,

that of the emergence of being through unsuspected and very pure enclosures;

… It is noon and the night is intense;

but midnight will come and the sharpness of the sun will dazzle;

… oh my heart, no, don’t delay, then;

we will not last here.


… hurry, hurry, old horse, pull, pull …!

you are still a horse, and even if you don’t know it,

We still have to crown the top, take the sky and set fire and transcend the night;

no, don’t stop, and, even with effort, chew,

hit the brake and climb up and jog up;

come on, move;

… Men know that when an old horse glows and flies,

the world must break its forms and seams, for it must boil relentlessly and alive,

so, with unusual longing, to be expected the relentless fire begins

of a great resurrection;

… Dear old friend body, we have crossed impossible roads, paths and seas;

we have heard the moaning of a rose, and, in the most intimate darkness, ah, you well know,

our misfortune has been deep and raw through the rough ravine of sadness;

… Then bring your bundle of bones closer together and once again let’s agree on how to reseed the shadow

with these few and insignificant white stones;

bring me closer, friend, do me this last favor,

come closer and let’s go.


… My faith as a bird against the hypnotic power of the serpent;

my heart of passion and the asp of the burning sea;

my covering of salt groans and cracks, breaks, breaks at last and conquers the fire;

… pity has fled from me, god has fled, blood, reason,

and the breast of grace and strength is an angry place of lilies and roses;

where the pain is, I have the battlefield, and the pus, the gall and the living death

that time and time again I must die;

… the bugle sounds and my hosts fall: thoughtlessness, usury

and revenge die;

… I am on the side of the road, I raise my arm and nobody stops;

and it is that everything, everything is way.


… In Juan’s house there is silence, clean stillness;

it is an old house and its interior is dim;

but, looking closely, on the wood of the roof the light builds

wispy filaments of fire;

… And everything is in order: the table, the chairs, an old painting and a centuries-old chest;

… At Juan’s house one waits as in his soul, because the conversation of life

that is heard can enter the interior of all its walls

and the things;

… when you leave there and with fury the sun hits your eyes and also the noise, the world

and the roar of the dioxide, oh God …! you say and you stop, and you look again

Juan’s house as a strange and unimaginable place, but right there, next door,

a completely unexpected house, absolutely incomprehensible.


… Between shelves and silence, the books are silent;

against the jetty and huge, furious, rising, the sea rushes and roars;

and under the blow and noise of eternity, little by little they arise in me,

falling and joining, and the thistles of love,

and already soot and stone;

[… And absorbed I was asking and searching my soul the reason for the world with his faith

and its avalanche of infinite grief;

He had moved away from the garden as if in flight of free light and blood,

which trembling of light and surprised, even more, it seemed mortal and wounded]

… where have you gone, companion – I said at the foot of the dawn –

that you were not in the House of Life?

… «your fire, your lilies have brought me» – he told me with relish -;

… And when she entered her room, the House of Love was burning.

= = =

«LIBERTAD: minor songs»


1 – Cosmic Soul

2 – Jacob’s Scale

3 – Live

4 – Justifications

5 – After loneliness and death, looking for us

6 – Not seeing, not feeling, not sinning

7 – And still, I can still remember

8 – Science or love

9 – Scrutinies

10 – Incarnation

11 – Physiology of silence

12 – Inner Elegy

13 – Door of love

14 – Spinning Wheel of Love

15 – Chronologies

16 – Herfás and Araí

17 – Of jousts and tournaments

18 – Of flowering

19 – Who rides

20 – Night walk

21 – Hail, Your Majesty, hail!

22 – Identification

23 – The visit

24 – Fire Route

25 – Under the Gift of an August Night

26 – Unstoppable Flight

27 – Of the symbols


… from the lily crystal to the water crystal,

the light;

and from the night crystal to the dream crystal,

the fire;

… and beyond,

where fire and light twinkle:

life, unity of being, total resurrection.


… thinking about my thoughts and attentive to my attention, living me,

pure complaints of soul among the light I heard;

my body, my blood, the emotion, the shadows dissolved,

and, in an act of power, I lit my mind and the fire of my being blazed in the world;

the seas, the continents, the voice, the air disappeared;

and yet, the silence, the peace and the eternal seal in which it is

they also left;

but the ineffable harmony to which I ascended gave me the courage to return;

… today I return to this ascent, and today, Jacob’s ladder,

it is a splendid and happy stretch before my door.


… this amazing occasion of my life, this immeasurable sea

of light and love, this being man and woman, today, on earth and compassion,

oh, with what song I can raise the voice of his joy;

… where I am and I am like rain smells and tastes like sickles of reason and hurricane wind,

and also to trifles, and to error, and to fault;

But still the chance to be here building a blade of grass and soul

at this brief moment, can anything match it …?

… Because sometimes there is so much affliction and evil that living and living together involve,

that the inner self rushes, flees and seems to give up seeing the unusual flight of birds;

… Where I am and I am, I say, it smells and tastes like brightness, and lime, like living earth;

under the sign of the orb it is my work in me: the slow fury, the exactitude of the fire,

creation, the royal proclamation between being and the world.


… there, where drums and war cries go,

– where tests and tears are –

Urge me the light, the alliance, the cleansing of blood, that of the sea;

I am urged by talent, the transubstantiation of sound, that of fire and death of the law,

and urge me, urge me love;

… Not by the will of the body but by causes of the soul,

– for thousands of years crying out for vengeance –

grudges and anger go and resounding like a voice of talion, of flint,

of iron;

… but here, here is the dew of life for the nails of being

On the old law and soul and the rust falls, is diluted, disappears,

and horror and death succumb at last without song or excuse;

… Of light and fire, the palms of the hands become transparent, alive;

this is the axis of the god with his age, his resurrection and redemption;

then the extinction and emergence of the world occurs which suffering and honor,

what mercy or fire, what mercy / force that floods, lives and burns.


… therefore could they fill with happiness perhaps our pasmos of love

or the beauty crystal?

Doesn’t our concern have to go beyond mere illusion

than looking at the God face to face in the depths, identifying with him,

contemplate his prostration and thus pluck him up and bring him on high?

… Ah, no, there was no beauty here;

someone piously wove and harmonized this plan so that we could cross

so terrible loneliness and resist;

… why not, it is not the body that loves nor the pain that hurts

nor the joy who laughs;

and no, neither is it the one who roars the sea nor the one who flies the goshawk,

for who really loves or roars, who flies or falls,

tell me, who dies? Is it that someone can die …?

… and silence again while I recuse the roar, the flight and the time,

distance, space and death;

… but if it were or were able to instruct the desire

and order the word, decree life and open and expand them,

If we were capable of it, then – I say – what could we not create

If the fire of God would repair our strength, and finally, in freedom, we could live.


[death by proxy]

… The flight of knives, the tremors, the dying eyes of those who are going to die,

the shudder, the anguish, the fury and the death floating between bodies and breaths,

between walls, between chains and iron hooks;

the death rattle of souls poisoned with anger, revenge and hatred flows,

with rude and blind despair, with aching pain from terror,

such is his fatal light, his own brutal presentiment;

… A slaughterhouse is a brutal and abominable enclave, desolate and atrocious;

rivers, blizzards and waterfalls of maddened crying gush and roll down tunnels and alleys,

They filter through walls and chambers, climb rooftops above, cloud the light,

and they travel through fields and cities with their cursed load for their cursed sowing;

in the shed blood of animals, in their cut bodies and skins, in their cells,

– apparently exquisite, adherent –

the stench of passion will appear on our plates and tables exciting anger,

sexuality, violence, invigorating and boosting our full being which dominator,

killer and destroyer of the world;

… Because certainly animals are struck down, slaughtered, stabbed,

and their screams of horror are a canopy / ax that hangs and marches like a god / no god through the air,

what an unprecedented, terrible and devastating specter;

… responsible ?

Ah … not seeing, not feeling, not sinning!

[… The black veil of compassion still: our atavistic and dense bastion of blindness]

And still, I can still remember

… and is that still, I can still see;

I can go out to the street and find a way, brace or riddle the chest,

burnish the heart, destroy it,

and still, I can still remember;

… Therefore, in front of the sky I can still endeavor to its light and depth,

in the structure that I had when the sea burned and of me there were only

the bed and the banks, and of the immense horror – which supreme nakedness – the walls;

and it is that I can still settle a battle or war and win them,

tear the veils, look to the other side of the world and see if a brother returns

by the way of the king;

… I can, I can tread pain and imply in it a serious challenge and its virtue;

I could actually walk on open stone and zoom in with my hands

the burning irons of the spirit;

still, I can still do it here and like this, now;

… and in this, and therefore, is that I sponsor fire and hope.


… that intellectual realization with pain and suffering under conscious basting,

that Kingdom of God of faith and knowledge, that glow, I say,

Can we win it, can we …?

sounds today and here like metal, a crisis of mind and heart, a storm,

to unemployment and to hard and to multiple forms of poverty;

… Is this 2009 general year of constrictions, expansions and terminations,

and yet, of hope;

Is it that nobody understands that a chic of violet has emerged

from the deepest darkness,

and that the bletooth and the iPod come from the same place and God, from the same semen

and the same light?

… This unity, this cooperation and solidarity of gods, forces and worlds,

And this lofty expanding in all directions, is it not a pure wave of water, sun or air?

… and tell me, isn’t it all, perhaps, attraction and passion for science?

answer me again, isn’t it love?


… And already sex, fame, money, power, war or death;

how much my senses touch, it is useful: now a boat, now an instrument;

And here I am, inventorying pain with old swords

with living blood and embers, with its ruins, with living rust;

and in such a dimension, I see hatred and anger march like revenge

between sadness and loneliness;

[an icy wind blows and burns]

It is the test of desolation and there is only death around,

damage and feverish memory,


… But I take a breath, I get up and decide to fight;

my chest is soaked and I have already understood that my god does not die,

And though I’ve lost warriors, and law, and darkness,

this, in itself, calms the pain;

… and after great battles, intimate rumors arise of acts to live:

bury the night, cross the jungle, instruct work, see, cough:

resurrect, always, always resurrect.


… who, returning from the eternal truth and entering the darkness,

He must not learn everything: to walk, to hear and to sin;

times pass and sound like moments of oblivion and desolation,

and so on like a breath of work and death, and of living hope,

and of light and light;

… Fire and rain flow from the hontanar in which the being burns,

and the being looks at itself and overwhelms, takes its spear and runs through the pain

to drink in each of its paths and tremble and cry in all;

… High, high and long is the path of light, and splendid, infinite,

but the guardian of pain will always hold his chic and identity and will see and know,

for water and fire is, and polar north, and also a sign, bias and condition of the god;

… Ah the world’s brilliance, tell me and tell us what darkness encloses

the future seals of the souls with their breath or power of light;

arise, then, and speak to us of the undefeated breath, of the crucial sword of the spirit.


… Between fury of sea and wind, of machines and cars,

in its sidereal matrix, wrapped by earth, pain and sky,

man thinks, studies and shouts to the cosmos: eeehhh…!

and nothing;

and the ships turn, get lost or come back empty, silent;

often dazed and broken by their own efforts,

due to the fatigue and loneliness of the materials or the enormous thickness of the data;

… And yet the tears and ambitions do not cease and man brings his faith to the temples of his chest

instructing languages, ideas, formats, numbers,

and again, slowly, protocols of power fall like butterflies of extreme lightness;

… in three-dimensional jargon they refer to giving the mind to the heart

and hearing their music and crying is an act of defeat, flight and scientific dishonor;

But some concluded by asking: what do the ears hear …?

Do you hear the sea, the wind? Do you actually hear machines and cars?

… and below and above the tears, even more so, living in them,

they discovered – they assure – joy, and even more inside the heavens and the gods with their light;

and all, all agreed to incardinate this episode in being, inaugurating being, peace, freedom;

and, more abundantly, they called it prodigies of silence.


… I have brought and placed a white stone for the construction of the temple

and has fallen into darkness;

As it was leaving and rolling, its sound has reminded me of losses,

discouragements, devastations;

… Therefore, blind, blind I am and I am afraid;

Won’t there be someone here?

I try to find columns, friezes, domes, and everything has disappeared;

Will I be so alone, so alone …?

because if the light is deep and does not die,

Where, where and how does it lie hidden?

… finally, with infinite anxiety, I cry and cry in despair in the face of the anguish of the soul,

but silence emerges, falls and penetrates everywhere;

… Already, in the street, the sun burns and the noise of the cars hits and pollutes;

her flash of fire and smoke are age and form reinterpreting and proclaiming the world;

… Although, in reality, all of these are the immense sounds of my heart.


… why,

who subjected to the test of love does not love,

Can he live?

What will be your temple, your car or plane, your friends, your home,

or in what flower, aroma or talisman can you put your aspiration, your hands

And be ?

… High, high are the living water and fire,


and so the light;

… therefore heartbreak is a wound, an icy embers, an iceberg,

a hole in his chest, a cry, his tomentum;

who submitted to the test of love does not love,

up to three and four times a reason and account will be required,

and up to three and four times he will hear the voice of this poem touching him and piercing his soul, gall and heart;

… Behold, then, the water and the fire;

[and spirit and spirit]


… it will be useless to go to the temple without the showbread,

and it will also be useless to approach the wedding banquet with a dark soul;

impossible, therefore, to weave the fleece without having passed through the spinning wheel of love;

So what, what will the spinning wheel of love be, what?

Do you remember Sir Launfant, drunk with pride,

riding out of his castle, in search of the Holy Grail, and haughtily and proudly throwing

a gold coin to the leper beggar who suffered behind his door?

And do you remember later, when hungry and cleft, defeated and crying when you return,

Did you share, after getting off your horse, your only crust of bread with such a grieving beggar?

And the famous art of serving, have you lived it, do you remember it?

… Because hard, hard it is to open to the light and sweet its truth, and clean, and deep;

and because times despise, because they pass hirsute of me, and me, and me, and it hardly shines

the being of honor, the one of rain and fire,

the one who forgives, heals and saves even if he cries in him, the one who gives and smiles;

… helpless, sometimes we beg for something from heaven, sometime, sometime;

but the god / pleasure irons us and throws us into the mud and engulfs us, devastates us and blinds us;

then, and reviled, our pole star retreats and remains hidden and barren for a long, long time.


… Like parasites and stones tied to our necks and feet

– crawling, living and usurping us –

pain, darkness;

… no one would see a god under such misery,

no one the power or the dew,

and nobody, nobody love or light;

… but it burns and rains in the bush,

the wind moans and sings in it,

and you well know that from the breast of a man is engendered,

orders and governs the world;

… The sea will green, it will catch fire,

and the highest gift of the sparrow and the stone will unify his being:

they will return to the dark night, they will share the souls and they will create and they will create truth;

… time does not exist, it is not, it has no power.


… when the soul transcends in the sea of ​​glass,

between light

– and beyond the light –

the night alive;

because already in the air, and behind the air,

what lily and rose are,

[balm him, ambrosia her]

only one is;

takes place when the heart knows,


and everything listens;

… In the night / loving light,

fire / love melts the world:

so Herfás and Araí and their slight rumor,

his being burning and replicating for the cut stone,

echo and honey for the brightness of the valley.


… if he could access suffering and achieve, not his swift and crazy disappearance,

but the exact way to feel and reason with him and in him and to exercise or not to exercise his fury,

If I could, I say, hold it, live it and understand it, maybe the veils of darkness would fall

and with them the hinges and hinges, the doors of error,

[ah, south of innocence, ah south of doom]

and already, alone with knowledge, with reason and heart – perhaps, and freely –

assume the responsibility of supporting and transforming it;

… It rains and hails on the fire and the god creaks and is excited as if he were fleeing,

as if it were deepening, just when the seal of my soul demands an arm

and the spear of the mighty;

… And here, here I have to fight and as many times as necessary to fall or die;

and it is that still, I still aspire to the king’s daughter.


… In the light everything blooms:

the stones,

the pain,

the gravel of silence

and faith,


… Create and shine in them the intimate honor, and in the deepest nights,

through the interiors of the chest, she can be heard singing;

And oh his notes and oh his voice…!

… In the house of light there are no scales;

the river of life

everything ignites, burns

And it is;

on the shelves of its lights,

in blood are written

the lofty books of men.


[At this moment, fundamentally, in front of the lobbies of the chemical and pharmaceutical industry, the manufacture of weapons, the financial / banking sector, the Insurance, and the big companies. Oil companies]

… From selfishness and deception came, and, with them, greed, greed and usury, boundless ambition,

Although, and previously, nihilism had been installed,

the economic and psychic acracia, the banal, the monarchies, the moves, the ugliness and the Suicism, the clumsy

and also, and everywhere, pop culture, the plague;

Therefore, how can submissive media and TTVV / trash not happen with their bulletins, contests and music / trash,

and laziness, ignorance, rising above us,

and finally, and likewise, dictatorships / lobbies with their constrictions, their sectarianism and terror;

that’s how inefficient Europe was born and joined with its neighborhoods / drugs, its school failure,

his old pedophilia and his terrible dogmas with corrupt rulers and his impunity,

its farces and its wicked rules with its wicked pardons;

for the same reasons, and in their crypts, there were subprime mortgages

And the armored super-jobs, the post-armored parties with their indolent and frontal scorn,

the excess itself with its aberration and the reaction of America;

… And there and here were also the car companies and banks with their toxic assets,

financial engineering, the stock market, the Cías. of Insurance and Central Banks, the WTO and the WHO,

the IMF and the WB and the BI, and of course the governments one by one

and the Independent Rating Agencies;

and in the same way, there and here, the year 2009 like the real estate / ghost with their jobs

and terrible exploitation because there were no rules or controls but financial engineering,

yes concealment or plain sight, non-compliance, ecological disasters

and unjust wars with torture, immense robberies and huge deficits;

and yes, and also extreme poverty and world unemployed with their terror through the streets,

through arcades and parks crowded with emptiness in the heart,

at the same time as fathers and mothers looking at it and repeating themselves over and over again: “it’s the crisis, it’s the crisis, it’s the crisis”,

to calm the soul and never finish calming it;

… That the climate has changed and it rains in torrents

or the earth dries up causing landslides

and human hecatombs …?

And what are tsunamis, earthquakes, flu / pandemic and man / hunger …?

What are they, what are they … ?;

Maybe we will understand so much trickery and the truth will once again ride among men

which champion of honor, progress and freedom;

perhaps perhaps;

… let the heart think about it and tell us,

let him judge it.


… Between earthly light, unknowns and shadows,

I go down the street;

it is night;

… But the immensity vibrates and lives like a sun and the sky is a tremor;

«I am that trembling, and each one is»,

I tell myself;

… but after my strength faded and my body shuddered in the cold night,

under the infinite hunch I stop to light the fire;

and now, and while the heart burns

– with the world on fire –

I enter myself, squeeze it, hold it and pamper it.


“… Keep your mind, heart and eyes open,

be supportive and never, never waste time ”,

– He said pointing his finger at me and with one foot on the stirrup –

and that peddler of gold, amid the enormous hubbub of his chariot,

taking the reins from the box,

he prodded the nag and left;

… at dusk, or at midnight, however,

from the blackest horizon I usually see it appear;

it is a dim light that hardly breaks, shines and dies, only, only;

but at that moment the sky burns, the mountain burns, and the rivers, and the total heart of the god;

then there is silence;

… I can even remember him now exclaiming when greeting:

Hail, Your Majesty, hail …!

and opening his arms, smiling.



… in the same place, under different tremors,

They are New York and Beijing;

and there is no distance between Madrid and Moscow, or Mexico, or Buenos Aires,

or Singapore;

… Almost infinite are the spheres of the world

and they all glow and roll

in intelligent and indefatigable song;

… Heaven, then, is here, and Borges’s Aleph and Dante’s hell;

and so the dimensions, the light, the dark, the infinite age

with life and death;

are here;

… Sometimes, if we listened carefully, we could hear directing

the sea its breath towards the universe on fire

or heart beat / thirst

in the rain;

… where everything is, and is

– where do I say –

you live and I live;

dear companion, have you discovered it yet, do you hear me, do you hear me …?


… well if it is infinitely strong and infinitely kind,

it is also fire and rain,

and light, and air,

and gold and nothing, apparently nothing;

… When it is approaching, the chariots of the heart are far away, like detainees,

as diluted, and silence acclaims, take and see the truth

who sees and announces;

… already, present, and observing it, it is a blue / violet and splendid point,

singing, being;

and when the harmony is total,

I’m slow to find my hands, I’m always slow, always;

… And above all, it is powerful;

There are days when the flight of imagination is within my reach

and, when this happens, Orion unfailingly senses, knows and enjoys

of what freedom is;

… when he opens the door to leave, nobody seems to see him,

for it is at once the door, the street, the glow of the night and the total being of the world;

so thus, living and sustaining me,

– to get rid of my being and strength, without even a rumor –

gently ceases and disappears;

then it makes me go back to my man jobs.


… more, deeper than the heart of blue flame,

I look for the fire;

and beyond the fire / god and redeemer, still beyond,


… therefore, my body and forces are an enormous battlefield, the warp

in which pain, courage and death are gestated,

and where it sprouts, burns and is

the living wind of resurrection;

[that, that is the lid]

… sometimes when I fight, I break and turn on the domains

from the chest and burning labaros, bones, flags and the fleece of being,

then tired and destroyed – and only then –

I know we are the invincible spark / light of an infinite fire

with its immortal fire;

… and on the edge of the world, as I leave behind my ruined orbits,

I go up and cross rivers and the water is burning life.


… catch yourself in the depths, my soul,

and let the night catch fire,

look and sing;

Do you hear, are you hearing …?

They are the silence and the trembling of the fig tree, the light of the stubble

and the glitter on blackberries;

listen, listen, then, and touch the immensity, that here, next to the water,

Silent and cheering, are the poplars, the crickets

and hazel;

… my dear, and this moment

– in which the earth burns and it is as if the sea burned and flew –

Can we recover it, enter and feel in it this gift

what does the dew split with?

… My soul, ah, fight, fight and don’t let yourself die;

you are the strength and courage of a man, his power, the fuel of God,

his unspeakable and pure spear, the distinguished greenery of the spirit.


… Under domes of love the world settles and marches;

rainbow noise, shoes, coughs, pandemics, tinctures,

soul rings and deformed forms of reason;

… And also the materials get tired, collide and shout, they remake, they break,

and night by night and day by day they wage the ten thousand battles to finally break apart

and be swallowed up by the dust / primordial being

of a new resurrection

of light,

singing and fighting;

[… And now, and now, may the sea be transformed and blown away, may the sound,

and that the majestic polyphony and stamp of the numbers;

Let the fire rise and rise, destroying causes, imaginations,

and may divine love be peace and balm of a will to urge power

beyond all brief order, given to stay or condition]

… Therefore, the man’s chest trembles like a hummingbird in the rain,

but, at some point, the prodigy of his fiery hummingbird will operate in him;

the being intuits, then, knows, that it will never die;

and open to this truth, he lives in it and shudders in it.


… because, even if the dream / voice comes from far, far away,

When all hearts are fair

How, how and who will speak of justice, moreover, what will justice be?

and when there are no more nations or markets or races or languages

nor Parliaments with laws to make or to comply with

and ideas fly without the tragic prison of words,

What will become of televisions and radios, what of iphons, telephones,

and what, what will become of the Internet, our videos and photos and our beloved emails!

And the prisons, will they disappear …? Will they do it at the end of cities and wastelands,

From the gloomy grounds of the soul, from the passion and prison of being?

… ah times, ah science of metal and instrument of man,

cosmogony of faith and reason with which we will still have to face floods,

astonishment, teeth and claws of such dense and long darkness: evil;

Let’s talk and talk to each other, then, of when the rainbow will end, of when the loaves will dissolve,

of when the disease, the suffering, the error,

the doubt…

… Oh fight without quarter, oh civil light, oh, oh freedom.



1 – Of the transformations

2 – Sow the century

3 – Itinerary of resentment

4 – The Tabernacle in the Wilderness

5 – The question


6 – Poem / legend

7 – The return

8 – Autumn Elegy: Dazzling

9 – Of the divine genius


10 – Damascus Road

11 – The school children

12 – Poem of the 2 avenues

13 – The sign and the word

14 – Freedom, freedom

15- Important things

16 – Pure flame


… a sunset, wounded and suddenly missing lines of calm and light,

after a terrible tremor of love causing havoc and collapse

of life and voice,

on the windowsill of the air

silence settled;

… and the lights,

the shells,

the eyes and the pulses,

sources and bliss

they were horrified to be;

… and when it was necessary to knock, knock and play hard

over the shoulder,


the feet

and the chest of bronze because the heart did not open,

appalled and defeated, the sound builder muttered:

«Winter passed here»;

… And taking the harp, without opening or praying, he wept and left.


… in this September 2009, 4 in the morning,

[no dogs, no traffic or wind through the poplars]

the night marches with that deep and calm slowness in which it usually burns

and burn the being;

… The spirit is here, the consciousness is here, and the old drum

of fire and fear driving away sinuses of calamity;

… Why not, 2009 is not just any year,

– ballast, expand, polish, press –

and the crops of the century are also in it

with the furrows open,

– waiting –

just when from North to South and from East to West the world is a lightning bolt,

an instant for rent, red pollen, living rain and air, air, deep and high …

… In the middle of the night and the crisis, the clock has reached 5 o’clock!

but who, who will come to till 6 o’clock if the land is still without light, wasteland;

rethink this urgency: who will sow 2009 and with what, with what …


[“… Be strong like a brave’s chest

and sweet as forgiveness «]

… When the offense arises and the heart opens to it,

he gets drunk on her, lives on her and, full of rancor, manures his chest

and also its fires, its shores and thus the brightness and rise of light,

what monster of boiling blood will not then come to mind

which helm of hatred, revenge or fury to arm oneself, stay

and kill;

… And thus, sick, the body is a ship, temple or bastion surrendered, devastated, demolished,

helpless before the abrasive potion of resentment cancer;

… but in deep, intimate rooms, as in a dark dream lies the one who cleanses and saves,

ignite and heal;

[«Are you the cry, the will, my lord?» – ask forgiveness enlightening the being]

and officiating as christs in the face of pain and death,

they both work and work for a heinous, proverbial and heroic restoration.


… Crowds before the altar of offerings,

sins and tithes,

warps of salt and fire,

light and smoke,

molten sea, of glass, of bronze,


… Chandelier with 7 arms,

showbread and incense,

its central ara;

and on the eastern gate,

– on blue, scarlet and purple linens –

falling and entering the sun;

… And further afield, next to the Mercy Seat, before the Ark of the Covenant,

before the Shekinah, before the invisible fire,

– kneeling, purified, clean and for the people –

Aaron receives the command, the voice of God,

the law;

… It was in the desert, on the cross of the Tabernacle,

whose symbols, today, with profound attire and rigor,

they define and preserve the sacred precincts of man and earth.


… Lovers travel through the river of the soul;

threads of sun unite them and live,

and faith,

and water waves;

… At sunset, by the southern sea, under the green and purple sky,

radiating salt and fire, Omer asked: Eiyesi,

you love Me…?

[and hearing it, the wind stopped and levitated for an instant, until in its mortal being

entered and left]

… it happened just when Éiyesi, bowed his head, smiling, in his love garb

she cried and cried and she could not fit herself with joy.


… Oh my spirit,

soak and wound me with the light of Christ, who I have to cross and burnish the sea;

So light my hands, my eyes, and my skin explode the enormous brilliance

of spring;

… but, alas, because if it were to be so,

Could it heal? And shut up, would you know …?

and instituted the joy, the spear of power and the blazing fire of the god,

Would I fall, would I take the spell from the temple, would I absorb the ecstasy

with his gift and joy?

… because I must open the door to the relatives of honor and the kingdom,

and tonight and tomorrow they will return hungry and thirsty

of your bread and love;

therefore, will I be able to abandon happiness and open…?

although what will I decide, live, die?

[.. my soul, how arduous you are sometimes and how hard your silence is]


[- 4th song at my house in Vecilla de la Polvorosa-

For Marisa -my wife- and grandchildren]

… if through the ages of yesterday the grass grows and the afternoon are lights of love in memory,

it is along the banks of Órbigo that bonfires spread and light;

Among the poplars the sun shines and grows gigantic with Isabel, Victor and Laura

while October and autumn beats she sings and seeks in them her immortal destiny;

… I know about the heart, I know;

the song of blood passed through here and grew,

the gold of life, the one who touches and saves, our christ,

eternity on;

… there is, there is a tremor over the faithful of the air,

a singular light and a deep and intimate and warm sound;

… And now, at eight in the afternoon, Marisa and I on the Ruta de la Plata,

– under the burning sky, burning among true violets –

hope drives and burns its power;

[the house is, the house will resist]


[… On the incandescent forest the universe is expressed:

water and fire, life and death embrace, glow and vibrate,

they sing;

… oh flower or moment that will always return,

oh dazzle, oh immortal feast]

… my soul came from fighting against the year, from being born and dying,

to restructure the seas and memories with which to house the lights / lights,

the burning of the spirit;

… and suddenly the autumn in huge, in majestic opening of the world

with its notes and living bloods, burning in constellations,

the enormous pulse between heaven and earth,

the powers of the sun and sound,

the judgment of love with its sidereal voice,

the light, the light, the light,

and also my being, my freedom shining there,

there, there, right there.

in the redoubt of a god in embers,

the forest…

[… But, despite everything, deep inside, my soul, tell me,

what appointment is this, to what death or ordeal I go and we go, to what rebirth…;

talk to me and tell me quietly why, why my love, why is the world on fire?]


… From East to West all chest is clamor,

a sore, a cry, an immemorial tear;

for, although the scent of the air coexists and struggles in it,

the power of the earth and the seduction of water, it is however the fire that burns,

impels and gives the blood greenness, growth or song,

the infinity of the sky;

And when the barbarian action has come from the North,

and the South has caught fire with fright and anguish, with fright and anguish, I say,

In spite of everything, so have its prodigious immensities, Attic and purple;

… that divine impulse of the heart does not stop

and it turns on and climbs the fibers or slums of time

which death and light;

… if we could hear the cry after its passage,

oh pain, oh compassion, oh mercy;

but if we heard its colossal, its hidden and formidable stroke of joy,

– his gift-

maybe we could intuit the why of a pleasure

of unimaginable intimate grandeur;

… It is here, exactly in the chest and from East to West, from North to South.


… On the Road to Damascus everyone goes blind;

knocked off the horse, broken the basting of the heart where are they, where have they gone,

where do Paul’s eyes go?

What days, what flashback do they attend, what flash or what vision?

Will your spirit contemplate a volcano, a cluster of fog and a sea of ​​light,

or it will reach its prelude, its silent and mineral sowing

What voracious and dark heat?

… Therefore, when you have entered the Glory of the Shekinah,

How can we not hear the Christ say «Paul, Paul, why are you persecuting me?»

… Everyone, everyone on the road to Damascus remains blind but they return wise,

humble, heroes;

yes, his bravery is inscribed in the book of centuries.


… The school children suffer and sing;

through a thousand crystals, the firmament illuminates its classes,

her playgrounds, the glories of her breasts

and the germ of their minds;

… smells and tastes of the sea in them, of deep and hard ocean,

and towers,

and also to light,

and to flower;

… School children go up and down, are born and die;

they are candeal fire,

and water;

… when in their beds they sleep and dream,

our beloved children seek and play with distant and forgotten red embers,

and when they return to class, their divine gift shines prominently and lucid,

fresh and cool, extraordinarily smart.


… Avenue of the Merchants

and Avenida del Espíritu;

… climb and climb the darkness of money drowning the heart,

debasing the soul, cutting off, extinguishing roses,

rising and rising and setting fire to the hurricane;

… Purple carpets, feasts, magnificent cars, polished stairs;

the eye of the hurricane sees everything, lives it and increases it as it turns and advances

like a bloody being that rises and, impassive, looks at the devastation

that engenders and leaves behind: the deadly pus;

… The damage is serious, deep,

and his disciples and friends are like empty amphorae, wasteland,

Burning in crying or pleading, helplessness, sadness and evil

of a carnation falling;

… Avenue of the Merchants

and Avenida del Espíritu;

greed is an overwhelming shadow of enormous relish,

and this, despite being beautiful among the beautiful and beautiful in the garden;

the whip of honor still cracks, the enraged light still blazes.


… In the deep domain of the rose, in its petals / temple,

light is fire,


their intimate peaks are aljófar,

crystal, living air,


and when the music plays, by the walls of the world

the voice that touches everything goes,

ignites and burns;

… is the night a repellent of love

and unspeakable thirst;

the sign arises, the word vibrates.


Oh flower of the day, oh flower of the year!


… Forbidden by law to be poor or to be poor by law?

Well, if everything, everything by law was obtained,

how and why to enter me to unleash my strength and conquer the faith,

the knowledge, the pain, the life and death that I am,

the world;

but above all how, how freedom?

… Because freedom is not given away, it does not enter through open doors,

does not follow anyone, is not in the markets, and no,

it must not be the caprice of the prince

and not a gift of law;

… Oh freedom and oh its construction, its temple / light, oh;

look, look within, to the depth;

there is still truth crucified in man / slave without gods or paths,

without its own truth, without song;

… Forbidden by law to be poor?

no no thanks;

poor or rich, sick or healthy, ignorant or educated,

I am my law, I am my only voice and circumstance, I am responsible, only, only I my condition,

my error and analysis, conscious light, prez of my justice;

… Ah my friends, my dear friends, happiness by law has never spread;

farce or disguise, illusory proclamation has been;

It is not, it does not exist.


… It hurts, it costs to die;

from the outline of the soul the shadows cast over our breasts,

rise and fall with our blood, excite, upset,

they increase the cough;

darkness is old dog that always had

rage seizes between the teeth,


… However, in lucid moments, when we have felt the journeys

from the end of the world snatching immunity from us,

When the light has been cut down and destroyed and the heart has been an extermination camp,

Ah, then, although the pleasure brief, and although slight, without peace and acid,

death has given us courage and courage

with which to fight;

… Intimate battlefields are not about fleeing or deserting,

ah, never, never, how else to forge the sword that creates a radiance;

sometimes life is a thread, a lightning bolt, yes, but it is the real truth

of our triumph;

… It hurts, it hurts and it is hard to die;

fire are the important things.


… Come to this vineyard that, although hurting, and burning,

love passed through her singing;

come and go up to their wineries, turn on,

and let the must jump and run alive

to the bowls of gold;

… Come to this vineyard, come and be satisfied with yourself, find yourself,

that there is a lot of spring growing between your being

of wounded water and fire;

… No, don’t delay and agree at twilight,

when the color of the world is pearl and butterfly,

survivor and deity, and dragon of the south,

and light ,

and fire;

… and even if coming is voluntary and this call is only a suggestion,

ah don’t go out without these love grapes, no, don’t go,

the vineyard is a dream, goal and radiance, the vineyard is a pure flame.



1 – Instant and supplication

2 – And the Valkyries love it

3 – The Ferris Wheel

4 – Of the infinite war

5 – Glamor or not glamor

6 – Her and him

7 – Feeling and searching

8 – Earthly and divine

9 – … and the cars pass without entrails

10 – Error Thesis

11 – On the notion of travel

12 – Aitiíne

13 – Secret Servants

14 – The Grail of Ebor

15 – We shared pebbles

16 – Reconstruction

17 – The conference

18 – Splin of the Night

19 – Stay of love

20 – Intimate son


… Mother of all times, pick me up in your arms, shelter me;

in the huge hole of your love recognize me and smile at me,

tell me;

… I shiver, I feel cold and the gale of death does not stop,

not the eruption of mountains and open seas,

not the intimate darkness;

mother, not fear, not anguish;

… I cry out to you like a fallen god,

which man,

what lily or animal I was;

… There are many, mother, my pieces, the scars / soul, the sutures;

of all the exiles and ordeals

I arrive;

… I am not asking for a warm place in the home, no, not a sun, mother;

just breath, pause the pain;

we children of Cain grow up with war.


… if from this body and with his eyes I look,

if among its strands I snatch myself, sing and love, suffer and die,

It is through its Fields of Mars that I redeem and wage my battles;

my body picks up the mirrors, the fallen violets,

anxiety and joy,


… Like an unfaithful echo, instructs darkness,

and yet guard the quantum fires or divine serpents,

the sacred science, the immortal light and the Valkyries love him;

… I will go away and let it fall like a snowflake, like a branch or honey, like a dew,

and with its last glow or light,

I will be back;

… My body and I recognize each other;

inveterately, the champions of war sense us and fear us.


… in the artichokes the water came

and the light went to heaven;

Her gold hurt the eyes, the air, the metals,.

penetrated the earth or ran like a living death giving itself,

burning, exterminating and becoming mortal;

… such was then in flames the garden,

the daedalus, the waist of the world,

the deity of the soul and temple received:


.. because there, in its mystical district you could hear the sun go down and drink,

set up in Christ

and die;

… And nobody, nobody muddied the miracle, never;

«Tac, tac, tac, that rattle of the buckets against the iron drum,

still, with all its vigor, by the sea of ​​the heart it beats against being, dreams and lives.


… Become self-sufficient, free yourself and don’t be a burden to anyone,

be mine, rebuild yourself;

you are pure fire,

lives in you,


Do you remember when, imprisoned between worlds, the darkness surrounded you like a death

and you had to fight that death, or when you first saw yourself down and powerless

and you wanted to conquer and exercise that power, do you remember …?

… and you, my soul, partner, flower, wife, girlfriend,

Do you hear me in this instant when I raise the desire for light and eternity

with what do I try to carve the sword of heroes?

… And you, my body, agate and metal, dew,

Again and again are you willing to the deaths of man,

to the waits and resurrections that await?

… because if so, and it is time,

we have the sign of rigor and emblem of combat.


.. love frames and saves the world;

the rich young man had complied with the law,

but he was not yet able to forget his possessions

and follow the Christ;

… What do you think, then, my man, that

our gifts to Caesar,

and in what the allegory of energetic expulsion from the temple?

Tell me do you remember the money changers and pigeon sellers?

… look and that only in freedom there is liberation, use it,

But iron on is, fit for pain

and motto for the brave;

because … do you know that rich man who manages and does not love wealth,

the one who fights and fights cementing jobs, sowing science and roses,

he who instructs and dispenses freedom, do you know him?

because if so, you may have noticed that it hardly appears on Facebook,

that neither on Twitter, and no, and not on couché paper;

… My man, being of Christ, does not it imply, I mean, such a bias of silence?


… In the intimate clarity in which they burned the sea could be heard;

they went in the night as in the glow of nimbus,

as if in gold that escaped from a coral temple

and anemones from the south, and high waist and eyes:

the flower of the heart;

… when they were eardrum of lily and silica of rose

they emitted light;

Ah then the conclave of heaven,

ah his burning currency, his seal and his power!

… together they had come from all times and all pains

around the corners and molicies, deeds and tremors

to this convention of love;

… At the exact hour, the angel of death saw them leave;

his being of air, was a fiery breeze.


… The air carried vertigo and nectar, silica and gold, rain;

It was when a tear, detachment or shock originated in the middle of my chest,

a wild and great boom, huge and unknown: an endless light, an immortal song;

… Because isn’t the one in which the birds are breaths of fire is a sacred moment?

between divine ivy and the indigo of the sun and are silent?

it was listening to them, oh lover, when I knew that there was no night,

that the earth was opal and crystal, and that the end of the world was to consist solely

that a god was not the champion of your sublime mortal hunches;

… return, return I want to the air, to the condition of total love, to the intense bonfire

in which living water is a source of honor and thirst,

yours and mine, love,

yours and mine;

… I am passing over a field of roses;

I laugh and cry

I’m looking for you


… Araí came from the south,

Of crimson and purple skies

from its living springs;

in a divine basket he brought pain of stone and water,

– and the air –

and there he was already without blemish and like a physical and divine bride,.

chalice of all roses;

… Herfás saw her over the sea in the afternoon and she recognized him

for its light among lilies;

… And oh the hidden splendor of the god,

oh the tenderness of loving arms under the shade of the elm,

and oh, oh the enormous, of the immeasurable taste of the breast!

In indescribable emulsion of souls they instituted their prime of life,

her dream and her truth;

… and still the gates of the night would remain open, still, still.


… A man falls, hurts, becomes unnerved and gets up;

as in his jacket he feels eternity and searches his pockets,

he touches his forehead, breathes and coughs in spite of himself;

his fingers and eyes of pain seek everything: a stark kiss,

a match, a palace, the depth of a needle in the soul and everywhere …

… Falls always occur on lonely and steep streets,

And on days of wind, cold and rain, the fallen rise like lonely Christs

Or they roll and crash down the street against benches, mailboxes, streetlights

or traffic signs;

Do you remember Carlos Nieva? yes, he was one of those who stumbled down every day

and he always sensed it;

… No, there is no escape; sometimes a man sings and sometimes a beast,

but always a god who has to fight to die

and to be able to return;

… the night is gloomy, dense, very dark, and the cars pass without mourning and without guts.


… at night, and already, in bed, when anxiety does not exist

and silence inspires calm and placidity because it reaches and plays the lute of life,

the heart and the mind speak and speak, they chatter smiling and giving, promising;

… and when the pleasure, which intoxicating wine has raised the rhythm and emotion

to infinite calculation, ah, then everything is already total and everything, everything is already possible;

… And finally, when joy is living and vain water, it exalts its existence with only rain,

ah, don’t ask why the curbs don’t have to fit

with the mouths of their wells;

… Therefore, how seductive the pillow is, how weightless the pleasure

and how indolent and fragile the joy,

how mythical both, how illusory;

they are the retinue of error, our blood witches and our syllables / cross;

… therefore, if there were fatality – drunk and crazy – the minutes would run and run

on us rampant and definitely undefeated.


.. when you go on a trip [perhaps escape]

– oh you, creator of worlds, you, visitor of cities –

observe yourself and scrutinize it, take the soul magnifying glass and be aware

that you are going to open a sun, that you will touch its blood and that its blood will be you;

Will the axes of a flower be removed or perhaps cracked?

Will some dream or time finally be born or die in you?

Or maybe since the advent of air

can you breathe?

[the dice have fallen and your journey is the tapestry]

… Imprisoned and free of who he is or what he is, the truth does not stop,

it is not negligent, it is not a way of bartering and no, never of delays;

in all directions enters and leaves, flows, and in her hands of snow

the darkness is snow, itself,

what your contemplation will allow you,

see and be;

… The progress of a god resides in her age and activity of fire,.

her genius and life shine with her burning fire and song;

… A trip is an earthquake, a crisis, an adventure, a gift to discern, a term;

its course and light are eternal.


… In unity of love

my beloved shines, glows;

bells and conches ring when they see her coming,

they agitate, define it, announce it,

and drunk, through a blue sea, the colors of the world run and dance,

they are like little red, yellow and green fish on the god of twilight;

… On the sand, still far away, when she sees us, she yells Itsoel…!

and I say ¡Aitiíneee …! And then we pick up the pace and run

and the blood rises, flies and burns through the rooms of the chest;

… Then Aitiíne is everything, he is God, my being, the light, Aitiíne is the air.


… Recognize that, as if they were yourself, they are mortal and immortal,

believe that they are often the mat and iniquity of the house,

and hear that they attract infamy and with modesty assume the depths of the most tragic and deepest pain;

[endure and endure this, ah, well, servants, and transform it]

… When through walls and doors they look and observe,

on the other side the sun burns, the wind and hail roar,

or the world rages with its civil laws like pus of the heart, like silt or smoke:

its deadly dregs;

[… And yes, yes, certainly, with their sword of love or power of soul, they institute the roses]

Ah gardeners of life, believe them divine and continue cultivating them and bringing them like a concretion of light,

in which men / gods are enlightened and liberated!

“Often, they assume, the terrestrial ones come out to meet us and our hands cannot touch them,

such is our tulle in flight, our home and ground,

truth of being and the century ”;

… Admit, in the end, that the servant has not died,

that blooms with light and roses and that works and lives with them, that encourages,

ah, ah, and if you have the chance, let yourself be informed by a face without time, without clothes and without a name,

and helping in silence, up or down, always, always, always.


… beyond the last seas, the last lands and lights,

you were;

… I entered my heart like a fire

and live roses came out to meet me when I said that Elaí was your name,

my faith and reason, my last, my exalted glory;

I carried my drums, my labaros and spears, my strength and triumphs,

the earthly oil,

the command and being,

the lineage;

… And nothing was;

… In atriums of silence, under the purest light, Love lives on the other side of the blood;

here, here is my Camelot, my Excalibur, and also my homeland and queen,

the one that dreams and shines,

my Elaí;

… therefore and outside the walls still, pilgrim in the chest,

poor, naked and blind, I am alone;

Ah, live roses …! to the one who is my soul,

Can you tell her that Ebor is dead and Ebor is calling her, can you?


… we shared pebbles, the ovals of the sea, the trembling of moons

and the song of the fire, its music;

when her eyes penetrated the earth intimating pain

and they seized it, I – still young and seeing it –

he cried because everything in him flowed as if they were balms for the wounds of the world;

… one afternoon he picked up his eyelids and without further ado left for centuries;

since then guides our cells, our blood and food

and instructs the air, the eye of the jaguar, the mountains and the strand of honey

and dew;

His presence cultivates the heart with faith and knowledge,

because it gives summit and epic to the light,



… And soon it will return;

ah, but not which Christ he turns, but which flower he created and carried with him:

her living chalice, hope, the intuition of triumph with which she lights,

this unfathomable force with which he catches us, burns us and inhabits us.


… I threw my tears into the river, into the river,

and also my faith of water, and the seas, and the old springs,

– all water –

and so the old honor,

the immemorial song,

my north and south,

the stone;

… I was going, then, with my spirit alone instructing dews and souls / fire, man,

because I wanted to institute in this body of fever and vertigo

the indestructible dream of the new heavens with death tense and alive;

… such a cross and I go in myself:

frank chest, free blood, and verb and veins on fire.


… the high seat is empty;

down on the construction site and fire,

today the world speaks and burns;

… And equality and peace impart justice,

and lights,



… through the infinite room the god coughs and his joy coughs,

they both stop and apologize but it’s too late:

attendance also coughs, lives, splendid,

attendance is pure ember;

… Clawing at the air and roaring, outside is darkness;

therefore, the instructor of gods senses the aggression, opens the door,

and, in the process of falling, he assumes the risk and the dense quagmire of the fighting.


… And I say and I say that the pain and fear of eternity is enormous;

I have woken by the night stand and known

its beaches and parks, its temples and streets, its subways and its closed supermarkets;

… beating over low heat, the night is a ghostly and gigantic spectacle:

the commemoration of the fury, the rebellion of the gods, the gall, the suburbs,

the mortal and immortal drive,

my heart;

… Having and bending for a moment like this is an action without limit,

the law

and the eye of the jaguar everywhere;

… Look, feel and hear the representation of the world, take and be its sword,

– bless her –

consists of falling through the shadows and returning without fury

and perhaps bright, but sad;

hope – I return and say – is not soft flint that awaits us;

so high is the honor, for such is, such is the light.


… my love, ah, don’t ever come and let me go find you,

that I have to break the stone orthodoxy and the rags of the century;

don’t come, don’t ever come, that in the middle of war darkness is crossing

with its iron flags the south of the heart;

… the days burn, the dew falls with pain

and the smoke clouds everything;

with me are the strength and the breath, my powers of life,

the decimated breaths of man and fire

with what I came to be;

… To dare infinite, to create and to resist is motto and bond in combat,

homage to the fallen, Flor de Lis,

longing, health and thirst;

…. my love, let me install your home with the best of fire,

So let the smoke cease and settle the war, leave me, leave me;

scars heal when roses shine.


… son, even if you are silent, yours is the warmth of the chest, the book of blood

and the faint aroma of divine oils;

in you the sea binds and bends, trembles, eternity vibrates

and in it the constellations burn and glow;

in you, oh beloved,

your mother and I perceive and inspire life;

… When you opened the heavens and set the house on fire, do you remember?

when your voice and light became reverberation of the beginning of the world

and the roses emerged, we did not give you then, ah gem of a soul,

another stay than this humble cendal of our breath;

… You are the sun of love on our lips, son;

your man beats are fire in the mouth.

= = =



1 – Our heritage

2 – 5th song for joy

3 – 15 verses to bread

4 – Outbreak of love

5 – On the edge of the knife

6 – Of art and its work

7 – Of the tiger / love

8 – Of faith and its spells

9 – Maelstrom

10 – Test of conscience

11 – My personal Hyde

12 – Heal my seas

13 – Old

14 – Mysteries and revelations

15 – How love was going

16 – Prophecy

17 – Evelina Nunez

18 – For María Luisa Carmen (my wife)

19 – Reading the world

20 – New time: freedom begins


… and when heaven instructs you,

ah, don’t go back then to get back the house, the language or the clothes you used,

but only the ardor of man with which to continue running through the huge fire

of eternity;

… son, listen: the earth, the world, are only fiction of the senses,

boulders of spirit, air and rain,

ungraspable to be;

the objects that arrive and penetrate your eyes will fall, they will disappear in you and in themselves,

And for a moment, son, you may think that alone and dead, and definitely abandoned,

you have to wander and wander through a universe without soul or tenderness;

… Despair, then, is a piece to fight, son;

fight, fight and defeat her,

win the battle;

our darkness ties us to this stone lamp

with which time and time again he comes out to polish us and illustrate reason;

… Because the Truth, son, is something else, have you listened to yourself with strict silence on your chest?

and before him, tell me, have you paid supreme attention, rigor and care?

My son, before I leave, stop and listen to me: our heritage is nourished by these heavy burdens.


… may joy come, may it resurrect and its light shines,

let the verb, the sea, the constellations / man explode,

and that the wise heart – which music and dew –

in the physical half of the chest install and look;

… But how about order and how freedom, how flight?

Are not courage, equanimity and the living wind intimate?

for shall not the impure air fall upon the tower in splendor,

nights and snakes’ nests,

the opacity of being,

your wound?

… Oh creative intelligence, oh spirit of life, oh will,

exercise like gods and appease the huge black lights,

the overflow, the lawless thirst of the tired heart;

… I find perverted light and it devours me;

I seek joy, but I must seize it and instruct it with the sword.


… on the humble face of bread,

life beats;

observing it, one intuits dation of other stars,

Fractions of time

soul works instituting incense, poppies and roses

together the shine of wheat;

… rest with that great depth with which heroes are silent,

under that attachment of the eternal glow before the sublime altar

of men / gods;

… XXI century: its splendor grows and the table, the house shakes;

I go to the

and the air and my hand stop,

But, getting closer, I take it at last

and then it vibrates,


… And no, no other class with which to glorify and redeem the day.


… Swift, voracious and elusive comes and arises in light and war

a hunch of love;

And thus, enormous, without warning, it opens doors, removes, burns and demolishes entablatures,

bloods go crazy and march like a god that would create a universe

without divine sciences, without face or magnitude;

And oh, oh me the times I heard it…!

… And the chest is before him white onion, honey or wax, amber, petal,

and saffron eyes,

and the sea absolutely only scorching flank without mercy

nor law;

Therefore, when suddenly it is absent and the heart is left between serpents and shadows,

rags and knives, and ask or curse the reason for the leaden hours and nights,

ah, then, emptied the body, eaten or damaged,

everything in him becomes swift, voracious and incomprehensible and is a gloomy lair

of serpents and rags, stones and knives;

and woe is me, the times that I had to die of cold for ages, eons and times,

oh, oh me;

… and look at me today,

my irises are still marble and cinnamon.


… Is it that no one will consciously yearn to rush the pain that lies within,

with which to extract and structure their freedom?

because think about it and tell me: what honor is it to succumb to pleasure,

what merit?

inhabit before and answer me what light?

Do you remember when he himself demanded to pervert joy,

when he opened the levees and the rough sea broke the light of our soul

and terror, darkness, fury and feast spread

of death ?

And the little voice of the heart, our distinguished beacon then,

– the one that warned of risks and disasters and was silenced, cast aside and oppressed –

do you remember her?

… Like heaven, certainly deep and hard is the truth, yes, and of arduous access,

but faithful and luminous, serene and supportive, always a companion,

and pure flame,

and live;

… no, no one yearns for harm and its torment, but the time has come

of conscious responsibility and courage: free challenges on the exact edge of the knife.


… Under gouges of soul the ocean rises and howls:

passion roars, desire roars;

the spirit knows that the disturbance it inhabits is wounded,

and that thus the thought / form, and that the cravings,

and that also the stones / salt of the heart,

and that also the law;

… who will build your ruby ​​or your diamond

and who the gold,

who, who freedom!

[… If reason trembles and hurts with segmented and dry fury

and whip the stubble, habits and thistles inside,

the presumptions are demolished like hysterical exiled kings without glory or memory

of their kingdoms of man]

… Truthfulness creates intimate moments of fire, paroxysms,

interstices through which it bursts and gives this lewd honor to being:

its deadly rigor, the burning word;

… Flee, then, the voice of the voice, the blood of the blood and take the goblets or mirrors

and be amazed, definitely live;

… the truth does not admit imperfections.


… love calms everything, heals everything:

fear, hatred, greed, hunger,

the sore of pain,

the illness,

the doubt;

… its light transforms, cleanses, cauterizes,

and in its path the voice of God and his power can be heard,

his forces searching, raising and opening springs,

living sources and intimate springs, the sustenance, the shelters of the world;

… And the heart senses it and knows it, lives it;

ah, when the sun cements its lights in the blood,

what transformation will there not be, what flight or value will not emerge

to obtain and erect the sword of heroes;

… in the evening, under the volcano of the tiger / love, everything creaks and squeaks;

ah, but the work of the tiger is powerful and exalted, sublime is its work;

the tiger suffers, the tiger is on fire, the tiger is burning at last, and the tiger burns the world.


… intimate is faith, his eyes and skin,.

your age and heart;

leaves the chest and lodges in hands and wheat

and set afire in arguments sculpting the glorious and mythical rooms of the genius;

and how deep and high his flash, his gift singing through the blood

with infinite strength [for such it is, such is its beauty]

… no, reason has never walked which vestal and alone,

no, never the forces of the soul,

and no, never your divine mentor or preceptor:

the will;

… faith is, then, living rain

and tiger in her den,.


finger of the world pointing to man the fords

of the light and its light,

and lightning of love, peace, wisdom burning.


… Between titanic swarms of light the heavens are cracking;

What infinite concert galaxies roar, roll and emerge, constellations are obstructed,

– they melt, explode, catch fire –

and from the East of the world an enormous dawn starts and marches with which it is instructed

and it is eternity;

… And no, sculpting the verb here is not easy;

concepts, gods, numbers, geometries, have been upset and removed.

diction is silence and music, words are fire,

and strength, and technique,

And power;

the immensity does not exist, I am the immensity and the god,

cosmos and chaos,

present dilution and future of things;

which flower in divine transit I am – and you are –

onyx of love that encompasses everything and burns everything;

… Of the earthly flight I retain testimony.


… this intention or purpose, this fire that observes, feels and speaks in the blood,

that meditates and is stronger than all the criminal and civil laws of the earth,

this fire, I insist, what produced it or who brought it to us,

what or who is …

like a wounded citadel it burns my flesh and in its flames my belongings crackle,

my canons are dissolved, my dresses snap

and the honor of my tongue cracks

and falls;

and always, always chose to ignore her voice that still replicates in a thousand greedy moments

by the lintel of the chest, and there, far, after the age of the heart;

… today it occupies all my rooms and bastions, takes my fury and is staining with patience and calm

those rough cliffs with which I exercised and increased the sores

of disdain;

today, and in the worst moments, it is only in silence and also in insignificance, chaste and slight brevity;

… Of this power, of this purifying drum of men I say,

of this burning fire, of this anointing, of this fire.


… when a stroke of passion and horror invades my heart today

and throws it into a heap of evil,

Can I escape, perhaps, the Mister Hyde that I harbor intimately,

that astral shell that I built with teeth, with hatred and fury,

and that, which stigma or body of sin, I left floating and waiting for my return

After the Death ?

… Oh, unfortunate me, temple attacked and incomprehensible to be,

for I carry by blood besides fire, snow, lichens and frozen icebergs,

infamous wind,

cold only;

… Oh being, my man, once again enter yourself, discover yourself and know yourself;

everything, everything has a cause and a price under the sun, everything;

and also its law, its time and its truth,

and also, alas, his justice,

and this, this is,

and so, and, also, this humble and desolate song.


… How I will heal my seas, the intimate wounds of the ocean;

how to take its burners, its radiant and chromatic fires drop by drop

and instruct in them a genius of pure light,

if its waters roar, break and go mad against the stones

from the heart;

… it is very hard to be aware of the passion and usury of blood

and not being able to stop them, anoint them, resurrect them,

and without further letting them go;

woe is me, where will I turn if every source and spring of the sea inflames and hardens,

breaks and burns, what spell of man will be worth me but this desire to see myself broken,

spirit to pieces or decimated god,


… ah, the freedom of fire does not lie in giving itself only in flame, burning and melting everywhere,

but in burning or not burning, even in seclusion, immolating oneself and not igniting;

such is the law of love, its fire and voice, its immortal song;

… Yes, there are cruel and unrepentant days and nights, dark jackals,

but only, only I am the lamp and instructor of my moments, only, only.


… So much and so much old people can be injured, mistreated and tortured,

so much and so much!

An old man is a tired animal that scrutinizes every step, every noise and voice among terrors,

every noise in the world;

[Have you seen his eyes …?]

… because an old man can be humiliated, repressed with impunity, pushed and beaten mercilessly,

knocked down and even spit on;

You can practically also be a prisoner, or confined, the doors closed

and be given the overdue meal

of the dogs;

… often, an old man is just a bowl of bones, a dunghill or pestilence, a boredom to fight,

70, 80 or 100 years without voice or light, without name or song,

a final obstacle, a forgetfulness;

… So much and so much, I say, old people can be injured, mistreated and tortured,

so much and so much!

An old man is a tired animal that scrutinizes every step, every noise and voice among terrors,

every noise in the world;

[Have you seen his eyes …?]

… because an old man can be humiliated, repressed with impunity, pushed and beaten mercilessly,

knocked down and even spit on;

You can practically also be a prisoner, or confined, the doors closed

and be given the overdue meal

of the dogs;

… often, an old man is just a bowl of bones, a dunghill or pestilence, a boredom to fight,

70, 80 or 100 years without voice or light, without name or song,

a final obstacle, a forgetfulness;

… So much and so much, I say, old people can be injured, mistreated and tortured,

so much and so much!

… In front of an old man, the brave are instructed and defeated.


… In the deep hours of the night the sun dazzles and speaks,


all the particles / wave of the world vibrate and converse, depart or return,

and in their loving beings other lights arise, other tasks,

other suns and other radiant and divine nights;

… ah, but for those who listen and look,

the universe is an intimate burst of consciousness and forces, voices and matter

with minimal breaks and enriching deaths;

… and it has no end, and so in depth and height,

in its march and becoming, in its cadence and song,

and his heart is in your heart and so in the centuries and eons that will be,

in his moment / god and in the light that comes;

… today, and at this hour,

the word is consumed by the gift of being and being everywhere,

and the expansion and aspiration do not cease;

beyond, the mystery is Him,

Whom human faith and reason still cannot understand or specify:

of The Unlimited I say, of Him, of Him, of the Unnamable, of The Absolute.


… and Love was going with his mother-of-pearl bucket, collecting sorrows,.

failures, terror and misery;

He sat next to the pain and spoke to him, stroked his forehead

and he stretched out his hands as he left;

such was his work for houses and streets, schools and parks,

and also traveled airplanes, subways, buses, elevators …

… And his journey had no end;

and when kneeling on the ground he inhaled or pressed his chin to his chest,

it acquired an unusual brilliance;

… the last time I saw him it was yesterday’s chiaroscuro:

holding my hand, he helped me up the last ramps of the morning.


… They will fight, they will fight and they will build democracy in their lands,

They will tear down their old houses, their old languages, their old religions,

and with faith and reason they will emerge into the air,

– to freedom –

to love, to light of the world;

… And when they perceive the sun’s pure and living essence,

ah, then, laying them down, they will unite their laws and nations, their republics,

and the grail of being will burn in their hearts;

[… Time is the undefeated marrow of infinite tinsel keys

with its ten thousand falls, ten thousand silences and ten thousand resurrections,

but if work is great, destiny must be great if light is ductile,

the flower and the kingdom]

… And even being instructed, for ages the truth will hover over the waters,

– will cleanse them, comfort them –

but, in the end, the burning fire will inscribe her name.


… Consciously, with every thought and emotion this woman built the world;

after creating it with roses and lilies, its divine fruits, she kept the golden word

in her throat, there she hid it, in her temple;

hence her inner house, the arduous cosmogony with which she implanted.

her first freedom, her law.

… Evelina Núñez coughed, swept and waxed stairs,

And when I looked in I knew when a ray of sunshine was burning

on a speck of dust or the sea;

Her first birth dated from the times when the dew appeared,.

that’s why she knew living fire, living water and other items

with which the spirit boils;

… Evelina Núñez remembered their names, their faces and the dates of their deaths,

but she also knew of a debt of love that in one life and another

it burned and burned her soul;

hence her austerity in the face of pain, or the humble light she used

when it entered her being, and, in lofty peace, her being ignited.


[my wife]

… love, through deep corridors where light is deity,

I deposit you;

[it is a work of spring, of intimate slenderness, of residence]

  you know ? at this moment I came, because in it you glowed,

in it time treasured the sacred cups of heaven and earth,

her pulse and elation, and this humble and inherent power

with what I keep and love you;

[… An honor has been,

a privilege,

a beautiful stay to live]

… and while we are still passing, a song, a chord there is that transcends the air,

the house, the being and the heart;

Everything here, next to you, is alive, everything encourages,

beats and is;

… lover, lover, in its beam of instants / fire,

– clean and on –

on the green table,

I leave the sea.


… a job that no one can miss and from which no one should be excluded?

It is the school / workshop, the school / world,

and machines, faxes and mobiles, rows and hours are her classes and books,.

its light and its desks;

and so our love and heartbreak, and hatred, selfishness, revenge,

vertebral columns in this house / temple of enormous and great precision;

… When you arrive and accept your grade / school, you look for your classroom through the corridors and doors,

enters, takes possession and in his intimate trembling he recognizes himself,

fight and grow;

but, oh, sometimes, under the slopes of filth, of gales and floods in which being dwells and vibrates,

school becomes suffocating and harsh dry or inhospitable sea or river,

and in his free will he abandons, curses and breaks the altar of instruction and expiation;

… In the atom / seed, or Book of Life, the truth is inserted: already effort and triumph,

and the failure or debt to be resolved;

If they are demanding and fair teachers and tutors, the causes and lessons to be taught are endless:

to each and everyone at every moment what is precise and just, that which corresponds to each one.

NEW TIME: freedom begins

… Arise, fly and build, that everything, everything is to be done:

the bloods, the roads, the crystal seas and the green of the air;

from the agora, from the pontoon of time and all the peaks of the earth

my heart is crying out;

… we are all and one by one blow by blow,

the complexion of the sound urging our dense, barberry forms,

and we are also the dragon, the dragons, but oh, also and at the same time the splendor,

– modern snakes –

the hubbub of those who have built the King’s intimate rooms by fire;

… The XXI arrives hitting and removing everything:

seals, signs, emblems, bastions, walls of being and soul,

[losses, detriments]

– old age and slavery –

antiquity is over;

the grids of the sun and the earth have moved;

therefore resurrect man;

freedom begins.



1 – Site invitation

2 – Vecilla 2010: Beat

3 – Helping

4 – Temple Merchants

5 – Modern works

6 – Natural law

7 – Intimate ode to pain

8 – The Good War

9 – Unit

10 – 2011 – Sphinxes

11 – New Anatomy Lesson

12 – Intimate Sonnet

13 – Unexpected Guests

14 – Dissection

15 -… and Sisyphus can’t take it anymore

16 – For the Republic

17 – Nadir

18 – The Guardian of the Water

19 – Security or freedom

20 – Grail Warriors

21 – Puerta del sol de Madrid-15M

22 – Of the new order

23 – Poetry

24 – Book of hours

25 – Solstice

26 – Deciding

27 – Visit the sun

28 – The tiger and his epic

29 – Gea

30 – Totality and freedom


… of those who come with me,

[to whom I present, and to whom do I offer it]

who or who will want to live;

… because hard turn is the cut of light,

forges over pure fire, with living water, on a living anvil;

… And now, as you enter, I beg you to listen and look up:

They will observe that no one erects the crystalline vaults of the sea with the sound of a hammer;

the companions who toil on the ribs or who stand tall,

They are brave hearts, minds and arms with which the spirit teaches love,

and in the longest and deepest nights in the world, his efforts are endless;

then, the needs of body and soul are truly immeasurable;

… But come in, come in now, please, and shss…! We are working.

Vecilla 2010: LATIR

… if I could reach what is beyond,

– even more –

if I achieved consciousness and consciousness of me!

oh illusion, oh hope that you come down like water from a river crying out

for opening up to his own gift,

oh hush;

… This is how youth, their flow, their liquidity or transit flow to God

under a song of eternity, of soul;

… Yes, I look and deep and high it is tonight here and the stars rise;

ah, in this light, Vecilla is a flower in love:

God and river, burning silence, this echo and being and this peace of mine,

this beating, this fire.


… in high waves of being,

– where the spirit is vertebra and light –

there I saw and heard you, there;

… Happened the night the birds died of cold;

their hearts froze, their breath froze,

and no one in his hands had held life with such love,

no one like that their temples,

his hunch,

no one like that a tremor;

… you know ? feeling and seeing you, the world was shaken

beyond dawn, much more;

through the suburbs, and at nightfall, still rumbles and burns the faith of your words.


… And they are, they are here;

from among those merchants, the moneychangers and pigeon sellers, have returned;

there is no doubt, they are, today specialized in hedge funds and subprime mortgages,

derived package builders, pure toxic, corrosive actives

To oppress the world with poison / darkness, poison / risk, poison / fraud

and its sequels of fear, unemployment and poverty, disease and madness;

They are those who occupy the tall skyscrapers and impeccable offices in cities,

those that by radio waves and behind the back of an instant devour states, continents,

and they advance and advance like invisible and terrible monsters in absolute impunity;

… And they are often close to judges and ministers, philanthropists and clergymen,

of heads of state, government, luminaries, social referents and cream and light of the media,

often adorable and unique, inimitable;

These are the current merchants, money changers and sellers of pigeons, enemies of the Christ

and today sweetly called «markets» and «investors», those who attack deficits,

national debts and the future, the peace of the human being, his blood and heart;

… And nobody, nobody holds them to blame because they are the system, lobbies of this work

or voice of the master demanding and imposing terrors, deregulations, sealed connivance,

ignominies and wars;

They are terrorists and financial hitmen – our own brothers –

the same, exactly the same that abominate man, embellish the stones

and they dunghill the temple;

… hitting him and shaking him, there is a cry anchored with rancor and fury in the West

and the problem is not forgiveness, but how, how to use the sword without damaging the temple

nor hurt freedom. [Summa final: “ah, watch them, watch them, modern merchants no longer tremble;

sadly, I attest «]


… we went down to the heart, to its wineries, and there, lit,

we built the red of blood, the sources of heat,

memory ranges;

in our wanderings, Father lent us his chest of violins,

– with an infinite chord under purple afternoons –

while we flew with that immortal sun in which being was us

without contemplating and idolizing

life itself;

… Ah the areas of the south, its warmth, the transparency of the sea

and the baskets of Araí filled with lilies and roses


… No, returning to this age was never easy;

omniscient words forge ice in the mouth.


… no, there is no disease but a violated law and a replica of the law:

mental or emotional discord,


… Thus, when consciously or unconsciously it instructs being error or darkness,

when it hits and breaks gates intercepting roads and groves of light and soul,

– when he has invoked death and death comes besieging, wounding and killing –

ah, then, how not to arise tumors / cancers or fevers with their dark or grayish orbs;

but, at the same time, how not to send the flower of her legions to fight against such crystallization.

and urging him to heal: divine energy, the world’s pristine energy, fire;

… Because fire is living force, girdle of law, infinite asepsis,

though also, and alas – in her energetic service – burning pain and crying,.

also, it is;

… Here is the being, once again, towards the living and reasoned struggle from spirit to spirit,

her own tremendous or epic of horror and fury, path of power and ultimate glory:

knowledge-wisdom, exact science, perfect health.


… whether it was in a punctual and wandering stigma or in a total and extraordinary blow,

from the root of time you have followed us, wounded and devastated;

invincible and invisible and unanimous enemy,

of you, pain,

who did not run away, who did not intuit you which monster inquisitor of souls

and torturer, slanderer and devastator of spirits;

… for ages, revolutions and times you crossed with the ax at the ready

chasing and intimidating bodies,

reason and heart;

and yet, and as it was, that fear will not return;

instructing lapses, mistakes and impostures,

the spiritual scab deforms perceptions, history and men;

… And today, already in the XXI, oh reviled and mocked gentleman,

I come to your forgiveness and laws, to your exact and redeeming clemency,

oh patient inspiring teacher,

oh earthly guardian,

– wise and faithful –

oh friend.


… Certainly, every undefeated heart must have been previously defeated:


roll and beg,

read the world, polish, reseed the blood

and flourish;

… And inexorably it will happen;

the forges of life never disavow their fires,

never his bellows, and no, never his anvils and hammers;

the symphony of pain and song is the proverbial temple of the world,

– intimate, intense –

and accessing the great atrium implies having tempered with courage

the famous sword of heroes;

… woe is me when, ignoring him, I dared to approach the edge of its embers,

woe is me, woe is me;

I am still searching for the thundering voice of its light and my disasters.


… who or what can obstruct the infinite door, the infinite light,

if what burning fire thinks and the heart feels its fiery and mystical presence!

… Where will the centuries come from like a sustaining gift of time,

from where, where and where will they go,

if I am here and I am there!

… From the earthly stone to divine love and the emery realm of being

towards total power;

… The seals are removed and the truth devours:

everything is spirit, tension, living consciousness, genius,

fire and light,

tension and struggle,

be divine,

exact and redeeming emblem everywhere.


[… Ah my brothers, ah my brave ones!]

… And my love is there;

flee, then, scorpions, scorpions and cobras,

that my voice will reach;

shake the darkness, show and dilute,

let the infamous time of thunderous silence sink its head,

– the one of fez and fury –

and the blood gets excited because burning centuries / flame arrive,

authentic from the south;

… In Tharir the heart is an immense song of fires and splendors,

party and freedom, way,

he is her beauty,

his sphinx

and voice,

his law,

so much so that when reason hears it, decidedly in love

lends him his champion;

… and from that moment «the pillars of the earth» are not by Ken Follett,

– no, they are not –

but of men / women who fight and die for an instant / fire,

by a single flash of light / resurrection.


       -… 6 positive doors and 6 negative doors, alternating, this is your heart:

a zodiac, an electromagnetic field for a breath of good or a swamp of evil;

from the top comes pure energy and with full freedom you qualify it;

so darkness or light will penetrate your being:

forgiveness, compassion, or anger;

that’s the law,

you are your lord;

– I, I my lord …? and until when ? Can I be eternally?

– You owe yourself to the norm and order, and there will be no evil that can already annihilate the world;

– So what freedom are you talking about, what harm, what power …?

– oh, my friend,

here we are small and the cosmos, itself, is multidimensional, and connected, and a matter of solidarity,

school with free, just and unjust personal and collective lessons or wars;

– Free, fair and unjust wars, and which is a school – you say …?

ah, Orion should kill you now, that I am still of bloody stone and bone;

but how to know if you would still survive, if I don’t even sense such a function or war chair.


… Of the huge waterfall of life

– where is freedom, where is flight –

I take and pulse the forces with which I yearn

fight this blinded battle;

… broken is the truth, its light yoked,

the evening seized, the sky wounded;

the blood with which I cry tears the veil

which sidereal and fiery snow;

… it is not a torment to fall into an arduous war,

nor the cry to which the spirit clings,

if the moment at his age makes him cry;

… and anointing me the courage I need,

here in the heart, the mind encloses,

the spear with which to split the infinite.


… what a man or a woman can become

if they are infinitely, they infinitely vibrate and infinitely live;

… In the depth of the night, in crucial silence,

the heart is a voice that reason has never managed to stop:

a shudder, a joy, a flash,

a scream / law,

its value;

every hunch is, then, a power or fire, a song, a chord with its immortal light;

… Like this, the other morning, when faith, hope and charity came to my house,

I was with the vacuum cleaner, passing it, and oh, oh me, because I did not see or feel them arrive;

Hence my chest burned, my hands burned and the vacuum cleaner also burned;

… And it took, we took a long time to greet each other and recognize each other.


… When the river is liquid and flowing light, pure fire,

and the jade and mother-of-pearl body gliding under the heat of the sun,

ah then what is the soul

what the spirit;

… Because you attend to your business:

He gets up, takes a shower, has breakfast and goes into the jungle, the leopard attacks him,

kills the leopard and is still wounded, coughs, returns and picks up his children,

They call him on the phone and he cries, then he laughs, he groans, he has dinner at last,

and what a tired and dismembered dog

throws himself at the television;

… and the river keeps burning, and the light flowing, flowing and burning, and leaving,

and thus an instant and another instant and thus eternity in tension:

all in duty,

all in delay;

… shaken by death,

and once again, waiting –

soul and spirit embrace, kiss and shudder.


… intimate is the law

and a fire to institute the mortal infinity of the heart;

Who from a sea of ​​rust and death,

from the sob and inheritance of the blood did not choose to instruct a lamp of hope,

an instant / gift or fire,

a joy ?

… ah, this observation, this meticulous recognition of being,

this scrutiny in peace, love and civil liberty,

– this work –

Would I have to go bankrupt …?

blow by blow and fall by fall we have paved the soul, the sky,

and Sisyphus can’t take it anymore; It is done, oh gods, our part,

fulfilled, then, the requirements, the solemnities and pacts of pain, of faith

and light;

… Which hymn of honor, of the King’s Way our stones are voice.


Plato is conscience, Caesar, attitude –

XXI century: through open lists, and between elected, by the government of the best-

… this principle,

this gift of equality and identical in being,

this excellence, this intimate radiance, this civic justice,

Where was it, who brought it to us?

… Because open to the sublime song of reason and heart,

the ages of slavery and exile of body and soul are already rushed,

behold, the XXI arrives demanding ballot boxes, and votes, and scrutinies,

minutes and proclamations, exact verdicts with which he exhales and lives in triumph

democracy and its virtue;

… Time has expired and the citizen and redemptive fire demands its establishment:

the universal being, his honor or guide, his beacon, his civil light, the republic;

not in vain – I go back and say – I am his champion, I am his prince.


… in this moment and hour, age and century, contemplate, feel and live,

– oh, be mine –

pain, love and fury,

collect them with courage, transform them and make them a sign of your new emblem,

the one who shines and says that we were here, on Earth,

the south, the nadir of the universe,

building the wing with which to honor our divine breath:

the entity and flight of the spirit;

… Therefore observe this trembling today, this immaterial noise of the temple / light

with their shocks and rust, the exhausted agony of these stones of man

to jets of blood everywhere in tears / lights,

in living sores;

… Should we have grown up differently? And here and so, and why, why …?

today we know however that trampling eternity is this impulse,

this crucial and incandescent force,

his gift:

the irruption of genius, its power and struggle, the light that spreads.


… I saw them come with their ruby ​​and diamond stones,

shining blindingly;

I took and wielded my crude Celtic tongue, and patience, and courage,

and still undeciphered light;

but with my heart burning I took them to the spring of living water

and from him they drank;

[while, I watered my laurel,

moreover, I lit my lamp]

… we say goodbye right next to the curb of the air,

where the pure and white rose thrives, where all is way and the worlds depart

in all directions;

… I am watching over the virtue of the water

and it is night;

the archons of fire drink at dawn.


… And there is a man / citizen deciding his own dimension:

Security or freedom …?

because what are modern princes to do today – he says –

for preserving the resident corpus from terror, what, what laws will they pass;

and the forces of the State or States, whom or whom will they pursue and arrest,

and how, and until when and where? And can you breathe, and can you live …?

… ah, because for this sense, for this meaning of integrity,

– for this perverted stay of being –

Would we have made, oh subtle Machiavelli, such a long and tragic journey?

… Therefore, rethink it and tell us, you parliamentarians / princes,

to which ghettos of body and soul could we still return,

to which cemeteries or stadiums, to which kingdoms, repeat it to us, to which republics

and of what;

… Risk / light – or risk / freedom – no, it does not involve these torments.


… Unpublished and neat, the free girls anointed themselves in light;

they saw them in their inner being;

They were for their breasts pots of fire,

seas and rivers,

pure snow,


crystal showers;

… Intimate survivors of fear and pain, of huge wars they came, of sudden battles,

and of that silence with which the heroes instruct and cement

the art of being and dying;

[… The warrior of light devastates the blood that he gives to his living rose,

quotes eternity, faces it, feels and lives,

for he is the fire / king

and the fallen,

the risen without end,

wandering genius who risks reason and heart in front of the world,

wins, and is a breath of humility]

… when the girls intercepted the virile souls, ah, at that very moment

they fired their lives, they conquered the heights of death and everything real became present

in its eternal being, the Self in its enormous and indestructible freedom:

his pristine ideal, the always now.


[15 M]

«… and no, and no,

because ours is the forum, the agora, justice, voice, freedom ”;

here, to these squares of the world, come the mocked, the dispossessed,

the tired and disappointed, the guilty and debtors of everything:

of the mortgage, of the taxes, of the bill of the water, of the gas, of the light …

… It is an immense receipt of life that is billed against the honor of being,

a fire, a hurricane of usury,

green shade,



… but the heart is a fight, an eternal song,

and this XXI requires this irruption, this demand,

this unit of civic squares with dreams and song:

«And no, and no,

because ours is the forum, the agora, justice, voice, freedom ”.


… look and hear well,

because these words of ours are just a maya, a dream, an illusion,

and they will pass;

divine fire, consciousness will sweep away this light and build another light,

  pure fire –

and he will glimpse these hours like old and rusty lights blinded by smoke;

… Mortality keeps immortal contracts at this age,

virgin twists, intimate knowledge with which we will instruct

aesthetics of love and honor, ageless and distinguished;

… Like wind without a string, oh yes, the words will pass;

the lexicon of the god does not reside in the mouth.


… And you ask what is poetry?

«Poetry is not closing your eyes neither to life nor to death

and then keep quiet or, until you go crazy,

shout and shout ”;

… Ah, ah, what is poetry, you say!

Does not the word generate an eardrum to sound,

– oh sublime trembling –

an excellent harmony interpreting and exposing the most intimate notes of the soul,

its depth or summit,

the feeling ?

… ah, ah poetry, ah omniscient lamp of the living god,

ah pain or agony, fire and total voice,

oh oh I sing!

… and when silence has become flesh and blood burning like an inner flame,

– in strength, in happiness and in love –

then, where and how to express it, with what gesture or truth, fire or light,

ah, answer me again and tell me, with what voice, with what deadly rigor, with what astonishment.


… With the radiant hours the tulle of the universe is torn and lit;

cracks are, fords, fleeting openings where the heart,

  for an instant –

ascends to the hall of honor and takes the throne;

because beyond the joy,

who in the depths and dregs of bitterness has not felt the break

or crack the light,

or scream at him or blow his chest with his living lights,

ah, who has not touched the reins of power that burning lines burn alive

that float with the blood;

… this subtle thread of fire, this burning thread of being,

Was it to be lost?

[consciousness is thus the future of the world]

… Therefore, I will invoke Saint John here, he, the beloved disciple,

the one who never trodden, which dark path, the undefeated trance of death.


…. the fire in which I am and with what I am, everything sets afire:

the silence,

the voice,

the pebbles,

the light of the air and joy;

… In faith and knowledge I aspire and live, and even beyond,

to the order with which it intuits and keeps the redeeming embers of the spirit;

… Urging and building peace of the heart is not easy,

Although the axis of the winds that governs my ship bends the stars,

… but, today, that’s my being,

so my sea,

so my fire.


… that how much you touch will heal,

what you look at, turn it on, resurrect it,

oh be mine, and may peace bake what you want and what you think,

and let it come to be,

let it come and be;

… moments arise when it is decided to decide between life or death,

face the spears of the sun, hold its fire and elucidate the flames

in the deep and atavistic loneliness of the chest;

… And you see, do you hear it?

joy comes from afar looking for you and its breeze is already tinkling,

calm his elixir,


… Do you remember the dark?

memory is light and air, mortal, human;

but, oh, oh dearly beloved, your throw is of love, your forgiveness is divine.


… Ah, it is always unusual to visit the sun;

this pleasure to walk through its streets and squares and greet friends is inexpressible

that you haven’t seen for millions of years;

it’s Saturday in the world and I’m sitting by the sea of ​​love

with someone who has suffered the most heinous scourges

on earth;

[but take a good look, because this transcription is not strictly exact;

the truth expresses its efficiency by adapting itself to being,

at his virgin instant,.

to the burning heart]

… and above all, I say, in these visits you meet new people, spirits come

from any tremor of the universe, tireless paladins interposing their spears

to heal and age, the open wound or the brutal hole of discouragement;

… So, then, and what tired material, to restore strength and light here is not little;

Furthermore, being a soul guest of the Christ is, in itself, a fact / foundation,

– intimate, very pure –

of inexpressible courage and honor.


… as among the lights, the tiger stalks, fights and kills on the sea

from the heart;

The jungle of blood is harsh, and the insatiability burning blindly

where a roar is death and song;

… and woe is me when I have to face the fury of my horror,

create the rain,

and urge the tiger to die of itself like pure, serene and transparent fire,

Well what, what is the cross of the soul through the burning forests of the chest;

… when I write this, it reeks of mortality, feverish battle and night,

leafless rose and ash;

at this moment, for my being there is expectation and a god standing between deep silences,

for dead despite himself, and ready to virtue, is the passing tiger.


… this famous inn, this blessed house alive in blood and fire,

– Gaia, Earth, I say –

Will I know how to inhabit it? And live it?

… in the infinity of the cosmos, to her heart I clasp my ear

and I dream, I dialogue with him and I assume the sacrament of light

and the asp of death;

… embraced, feeling us, the truth burns us, conscience vibrates,

and a lightning bolt of love lights the arms of bones and stones;

… Ah, this welcome, this bundle of sweetness, this hope:

pure burning of spirit and spirit;

[… We will make this earth a sun]


… Only here, and in freedom, does the spirit instruct its fire and water:

the living fire,

the living water;

… hontanar and anvil the man striking himself,

man with his god creating with God,

eternal man, total and citizen,

free man, free and free,

man in flight, in fire, in flames,

divine man, supreme and ours,

– one by one, man to man and blow by blow –

man of love and honor, invisible and civil,

man always and always, man, mortal and immortal man,

… Today the sea and the air will vibrate higher, eternity, the rose,

and so, so their breaths

and light;

… We are, then, and in each being, all bodies, all souls, all fires.



1 – From among the gifts of fire

2 – Onyxes

3 – Welcome

4 – Dichotomy and synthesis

4 – Resurrection

6 – Physiology of the spirit

7 – Of love, justice and peace

8 – Eternal Notaries

9 – Free Witnesses

10 – Preeminence

11 – Spiritual Winter

12 – Lighting bonfires

13 – Twilight: short song

14 – Declaration

15 – Saving pearls

16 – Science and lyrics

17 – Be a lighthouse

18 – Universal Square

19 – XXI century: voice of rain

20 – From the sun that lives and burns us

21- Of knowledge

22 – Of your own beauty

23 – The air burns

24 – Modern torture and extermination camps

25 – Hamlet 2012

26 – The emergence of Africa

27 – Of man and numbers

28 – Children

29 – Spirit and soul

30 – Return

31 – Theseus: his metaphysics

32 – On the exegesis of the dream

33 – Fiction and poetic epic

34 – Vallejo, unforgettable

35 – Poem of 11-11-2012


… that what is, catches fire, shines and burns,

May the world house in the chest and, burning, each cell expresses the home,

your intention or conscience, your purpose or voice,

the stay alive;

… This underside or horn of plenty, this pitcher or foundation of light,

from what gift of fire will he take his being;

… From the work of the spike or the lily? From the honey or the rose?

From the anointing of the olive tree?


… Lucid, torches of my soul, go up and climb the civil and divine hills

and light up the north;

… Open winds, help also, untie yourselves from the sea and empty the living rain among the blood,

honor her, then, institute man;

… And enter, enter joy and freedom, come and rise,

Get on the stage of the world and confess why pool or spring

burning fire is poured out at the same time

and the water that burns;

… And you, forces of dawn and dew,

why, why are you so beautiful and why the light, and why, why the urgency of this thirst;

and oh, and oh,

why this honor, why – say – in total and intense silence,

Because, why.


… Yes, yes, you certainly arrive and are strong and powerful,

but you still have to increase compassion, the flower of patience

and the gift of humility;

without them, the wind will pierce your towers, the ivy and birds will go through them

and they will be the pasture of gales and hail,

they will have no solid rock,

they will collapse;

… Well, haven’t you come chasing and instituting a bouquet or tremble of beauty?

therefore, be brave and discover yourself, manifest your legitimate splendor,

make it show off;

good, good, brilliant, magnificent;

… And, now, better be quiet:

the deed of silence is deed of the heroes.


… On the radiant prop of the poplars,

the sun is pure fire that descends and flies through the streets impregnating them with gold,

internalizing that vestal light that lovers only sense and yearn for;

… And yet the pain wanders;

with naturalness it passes and moves away, or enters unbridled, it appropriates the carnal fortress

and drastically works on it by altering it, hurting it, healing it;

It is thus that, until extinguished, the darkness is pus and stench that everything cracks, breaks and dislodges,

and it is difficult to capture this scrutiny or contemplation, this apparent oxymoron,

the intimate coexistence in which the mythical and tragic forces of being inhabit,

– Eros and Thánatos –

while staying here;

… sometimes, tired, very tired, one seeks hope just by looking,

or just feeling the hours go by and beat, the cars, the wind, the heart;

and yet, within, is the unique sea of ​​the god, being and waiting in its astonishing serenity,

which divine paladin honoring the most pure keys of the spirit;

… but again, and while, no, there will be no delay,

Well now, and from the dark edge of the poplars, descending swiftly and whipping the sky,

with his dagger the terrifying sound of the waves breaks.


… to this enormous vibration of life,

[intelligence, wisdom and power]

to this immortal force or energy that inhabits and guards us, one by one and blade by blade,

[in its solar, galactic and universal vortex, I say]

Have I opened the light of conscience to intimate its song of fire,

its chord or law,

your gift?

… ah, one senses the stone as forming itself, as motionless waiting

that the basting of fire and gold exalt it to light sand

and inhale a higher song;

… Everything, then, gravitates inside and outside, glows and disappears,

turns and is;

… and if while we are and scrutinize the indelible traces of the hands, the maelstrom endures,

the voice of our blood is an ember that names and takes away,

burns and consumes us;

… Symbols, similes, earthly expressions of resurrection.


… if in the spirit,

– I say –

there are no boundaries, no heart, no face,

and yes love and yes DNA and quantum numbers and music in action,

of infinite piety and justice are its streets, the air, the touch, the buildings;

… And if time and distances are also ignored,

– and going up, down and walking are not recorded, since they have no support or foundation in it –

ah, neither the desire and the mind wish and think because they already do it and they did it in unison

with any moment and this moment;

[in The Now, Everything was and Everything is]

…. but, and the truth, and the light, and the beauty?

Mayans, reflections of the flow, dilutions, earth phases;

blessed who manages to integrate power and verb and movement and wins,

since it will have become a pillar of the temple of its God and, now, from it, no, it will never leave.

… Liberation is conclusive triumph, carnal end, definitive light.


… If from the pristine light of the god the orb becomes and in multiple dimensions the spirit burns in it,

– in redeeming fire and living water –

Like a boulder, the body / form is a blinding veil,

density and civil hunch,


… But understand and see, then, the assault is near,

Who will want to be a champion?

because today, 2012, and facing the wind, ancestral forces are lookouts, coyotes watching

and chasing their prey, ready to attack;

… Therefore, who, who in pursuit of this epic will build and cross bridges over abysses,

who, I say, will unsheathe the sword or energy / soul and will want to live giving life,

who of you, tell me, who, who will do it;

… And new and unknown wineskins will arise, and lights, and emblems, and banners, and north,

and yes, and yes, also new heroes;

of love, justice and peace will be the flower with which to bring down the hormone of hunger and war.


… The Earth roars, its wheels, its grid and axles, its laws, its walls;

atavistic fires roar and roar and blood / flame responds through symbolic streets and squares,

through parks, boulevards: icebergs or civil attics,

last bastions of the soul;

… here are the fissures of time at this moment when tsars emerge or the sand is resurrected

together with the syncope of Europe and the vertigo of America;

here are the East and the West mutually contemplating each other as never was, as never,

with the rapture and doubt that in the bird instills the face of the serpent,

and yet, loving each other;

and here is our freedom with its rust, stealthily beaten and eaten away;

such has been and is usury in her, a trembling bird and at the same time a splinter with which she has to anoint

death itself;

… So the light and the solar song boil,

the old structures of reason and heart boil and their emblems creak or break;

and it boils and spreads – why not – the milestone of instructing an immortal portico in which a man arrives,

fight, grow, and depart like a god;

… Well there are no verses / fire saying “arise, fly and build, everything, everything is to be done:

the blood, the roads, the crystal seas and the green of the air ”?

be brave and see well because hope has finally arrived, hope is here;

They are not coups, but rebirth, the fall at last of the old and dense stigma that despises the planet;

… And no, fear not: freedom, like light, never impoverishes.


… this excuse, this lifting or lifting of the veil through financial and economic crises,

this look, discovering soul and being of the world – who and how we are –

without a doubt, and strictly speaking, it establishes the greatest event ever of humanity and the planet;

helpless and stranded, furious and poor, dumbfounded, such have been our faces when the light has entered

and illuminated the bottom and gut of the heart;

… Because here, and in it, is where the tigers, hyenas, jaguars, serpents and the lion are,

and also, alas, the oryx:

face to face being / love and being / darkness;

… and if in truth everything flows and nothing exact at this moment has to return,

– not like this, and never –

however the affection is deep and medullary, final, categorical;

… You are actors and free witnesses of what is happening and will happen,

intimate and illustrious warriors of what they have wanted to be,

so they have decided

and so it will happen;

… given on February 9, 2012, in the 1513 of the Sidereal Year.


… No, it is not the money, it is not the race, the color, the language, the creed,

and neither does stature or strength, sex, beauty or fame,

Ah, nooo…!

because, who was it who rubbed and rubbed a stone to hatch a diamond,

and who stretched out his hand to peace and delivered a serpent;

… therefore, earthly oils for death

and divine oils for life;

and so the sunset and the sea,

and so the air,

the Rose,

the lily;

… And is that, ultimately, only, only goodness with its light lasts.


… As if another age or another wrong time or dispensation had come and was harassing us:

with pain and usury,

so, so goes the air;

because what, what is the commitment of this huge spiritual winter,

this precipice,

this soul cold,

this lar split in two and in ruin;

So many rough centuries and nothing worth?

Was man a field of gigantic trials and glories and we did not know it?

Who, who were we and where were we, in what and why?

… oh, woe to me and us, who still love the pus of darkness, its dregs and depth,

this consequence, I say: the act with its strict effect of power:

these hours;

… therefore, the street is a tremor,

a tremor mobile phones, radios, televisions, social networks,

and a tremor likewise the UN, the parliaments, the prisons, the very humble PVC tables

and the light without light:

the heart;

winter will last as long as the battle lasts;

… I close, then, and thus, words and memories and their blinds fall;

I look for joy and I only find cold, cold and cold, only cold.


[General appeal]

… because, who, who measures the lights in the eye of the jaguar,

who the circumference in which everything lives and is, or the voice and light of the stars,

and who, who eternity;

… and yet there is that power, that crystal that gives the exactitude

and that carry the sound builder,

the guardian of distances

and the giver of love;

… therefore, how to look into the depths without taking the stranded joy and igniting it,

How not to set blood and bones on fire with beauty if their gloom is gall and death,

and how to avoid that being a man and a woman has been a condition of horror with which to achieve and structure the light;

… Let’s get up, then, let’s tense this dawn first and feel our fibers creak, the powers found,

and let us produce, ah, the enormous hubbub of our trills and free hearts;

oh human being let’s do it now, here and now,

transcend the ember of your being and light the altar, the synthesis of the temple,

the flower of this truth that I hoarse;

… no, it doesn’t matter how cold it is: may your chest burn and glow and may its splendor

turn on and call and call;

But, oh, friends, this work is so hard and hard.

TWILIGHT: short song

… this rumor, this vibrant anointing as I walk and think and feel alone,

this unknowable being of fire and air,

– whom I sense and smell and accompany me –

is the light;

and no, it did not come between my clothes, it would be around here, through the heaths,

waiting for me;

… Ah, if you were with me now and could touch its golden glitter,

– or aspire its essence to peace, river and thyme –

If they could, I say, fly and burn their hearts with him and in him,

ah, how much could we talk about,

how much;

… In the distance, and like an immortal guide, he has risen with his sword of lights and has torn the sky;

but I know that it is here with the languages ​​of the soul,

between this hubbub of stubble and poplars and birds burning me under the lute of being,

the flame in which to live;

… by my side, flirting, the last two butterflies have passed, being and sharing the afternoon and the world;

Oh, instant, oh, oh joy!


… I go light, nothing remains;

the fire has consumed my mortal being and belongings, my reflection or duality, its pieces or portions:

my last light

and my last blade;

… now I am and live in the ungraspable,

reason why I hear and see, feel and revive everywhere,

and there where I sense the earthly disaster with which one day I used and scratched my freedom;

Everything, then, I have given: car, clothes, trousseau, parties, bridges and concepts,

loves and memory,


and so the bones, my own skin and my own souls,

like a fiery torrent, everything, everything is gone;

… The novelty of the risen one is this universal audience or voice,

– its harmony –

and also, alas, its enormous nakedness: the unnamed peace;

… No, here there is no time to save more clock hours;

a new phoenix without end regroups the heart and ignites the song:

the shadow of light does not exist in it.


… and is that amazed, or dazzled, we usually save moments like pure brilliance,

like living pearls;

but pressing this finding to the chest, entering it and having it, will it save us from something, I mean, will it be worth …?

one crosses and looks for a light to give, a glow, something divine with which to set the hours,

the phases of terror, horror and darkness;

… if at least the Wound Healer and the Sound Builder would pass by here often,

ah, about what hunch we could then create an apex of flame to be,

a hunt of emotion,

of life,

or simply some hands with which to calm this so physical and dramatic option of time;

… It is difficult to discern and almost everything is wasted, wrapped in anything and thrown into the container;

Therefore, can we bring to redeem some moment / pearl, some moment / north,

some throbbing hope

or light?

drums resound through high estates, and 2012, along endless paths, marching around,

but with that equanimous ardor of those who already know the sound with which to adhere their hours, their days and months

to other future times, lucid, intrepid and beautiful;

… On the ground, fallen, all atavism breaks and rots, oozes and disappears;

and below and above, and between the air and in front of the air, like a great and powerful warrior, the spirit,

auscultating and modernizing souls with which, once again, he will fight and win the war.


… With sound and light the universe is erected and rebuilt:

violins for roses,

oboes for lilies;

… and woe is me under love, trembling,

Oh my,

for it comes, lights and rises in the morning like a lute of fire,

and I, in his home, listening to him, burning…!

… And this warmth, and this strength, and this sweetness?

… the whole sea has burned, everything,

and clean it is;

… They raise towards the sun, the flight, the pigeons, the seagulls,

and also, they also undertake it, my three goldfinches, divine emblems of my soul.


… And there, precisely, where the storms of the sea, the sky and the earth hit and howl,

where the elements are whips and swords, furies, asps in battle,

and the terror darkness of the heart,

there, precisely, even far and high,


so powerful and alone

so impersonal and immobile,

so radiant and crucial, so saving and serene,

and, finally, so in compassion for and with us, so first stone;

… Oh, friend or friend: and why not be a lighthouse of the world in your country,

in your city or neighborhood,

At school or work,

in your family or home,

even in yourself,

– in your own being –

Why? Why not;

the lighthouse does not scream, it does not fight;

just shine, shine,

… And is that you know? nothing, nothing would ever be the same.


– … and here, here I have returned, because here I was born and here I live –

… In this central square of Vecilla de la Polvorosa, on the vertical hinge of the air,

the world rotates;

here the gods, the ages, the virtue of fire were anointed

and the song of men;

… At this point with his moment, and invested by him the voice of the heart,

– watching it, entering it and feeling it –

one can erect and make live peace, light, joy, freedom;

for when the universe instills its brilliance, the square incandescent,

oh temple, oh splendor, oh indestructible sign with which the spirit instructs and enjoys

the pure roses or synthesis of the soul;

… Exalted among the lights, beauty falls against the south of the afternoon and everything ends;

but, in the desolation that floods and remains, in its very center, the immortal embers burst forth and survive.

21st CENTURY: voice of rain

… traveler, this is the 21st century, stop and park,

road signs have changed:

justice and his peace,

the light,



and so, and also, also, the throb of the fire;

… Therefore, observe, do not get lost and alert your heart,

Have you not noticed that it is flooded with rain and that, nevertheless, it sparks, jumps and burns and flies away?

… ah traveler, traveler, this is your gift or free essence:

the rupture of space / time,

divine and new science that instructs, calms and burns;

… Inquire into the roar of the chest, enter it and listen: it is the sound of forgiveness, it is the voice of this rain.


… from the deepest winepress in the universe, from this gully of immense density,

how, how to emerge and consciously take a pencil or cursor and institute the voice as a divine song, how;

The wait is long and one approaches the heart because he thinks and believes like fresh, burning grass,

and is willing to live and die for this intuition of honor, love and fire;

From top to bottom, then, it runs through being, and here, an unfathomable rupture:

a cut, an infinite scar partition,

a vertical pain,

and, inside, deep inside,

a God,

a fire;

therefore, and facing myself, I urge myself and ask myself: who, who is here, who am I …!

… Because the chest perceives the timbre of the stars, the inconsistency of time and the temple of light,

and, likewise, this instant of clear assumption and ardor before death;

… But what if death were just an apparent iceberg and the spirit managed to make reason live?

Could I love her or be forged in compassion,

ah could you

… A woman or a man, and a question, a flight and a power;

signs, intimate traces of the sun that lives and burns us.


… Nothing and no one came but your strength, your lightning, your unique gift and your joy;

from the thirst of May, the drops of water are breath, aegis and solar patina,

reverberation of the world;

behold, then, and here, which intimate light,

which love hunt,

which lily;

… and it seemed, it seemed that there was nothing against time,

against disease, against death,

or against an inhospitable and wild, fatal and irreversible past!

… Oh knowledge, oh hope, my flower, my living fire,

how long have I waited for you;

with the bitter winds from the north I receive you.


… If with honey in your soul and your hands you reached the edge of the water,

– next to God in his rain action, next to life –

and, looking at the afternoon, you could set your chest on fire and offer your entity of fire to the universe,

ah, what a rain of love wouldn’t come to you,

what gift of light or what opulence;

… this trance, this flash or inner quantum instant,

Isn’t it and exhale – tell me – a ray of your own beauty?

because flowering is this burning, this intimate and terrifying work in sublime solitude,

that of your mythical and pure forces with your real power:


the transubstantiation of the world;

… Therefore, here are your red pebbles and your white pebbles:

those that are and forge the truth, those, the unique and heroic,

those that are from the altar and the fire of silence.


… I am the infinity of light, the one who opens the cosmos, the one who enlarges it in circles and closes it in circles;

I am the eye of the jaguar, the face of the savannas and the feverish zeal of the jungles;

I am your voice, your radiance, my stone and your stone, and so, so the holistic and also, oh, the quantum;

… Describe and transmute these things, resurrect them and make them be rings of words,

– flower, understanding –

it only happens when the crisis is great and the blazing fire breaks out, freeing the human / god,

– Well, how free it is –

of his own mistakes, powers and greed;

… 2012 and 2013 and more, beyond:

years of light and anguish,

chasms and bridges / soul, revivifications, metamorphosis and beginning of the soul splitting of the world,

huge arrival of women and men / Christ,

for the first time, peace and love refined as a divine splint for pain and suffering,

North and South, South, East and West, East,

the sun burns and burns, urging the aptitude of the cold as a magical and latent series of the spirit;

on the way, let no one take offense or wield the dagger,

for the terrifying son will have ceased, the one that hoisted and stirred the waves;

… Year 2650:

in that now is the hour on the dot, and now, without respite, we can walk and walk forward and up:

In the hall of honor, everything, everything is,

and everything, everything will be authentic way.


-… on the vertical of Europe –

… Who will return from this battle and who and how many will fall;

what is left behind are immense torture and extermination camps

with subfields of poverty, ignorance and hunger, disease and despair;

… The turrets work and all the controls and sub-controls obey with that promptness

horror of the void, the loneliness of oblivion and the ineluctable halo of anguish like death;

… And yet a fallen rose, what, what is a fallen rose worth, what;

on hot days and nights, like this night, the ancient poisons of the air return;

the nascent Pyrenees broadcast again, social networks are tunnels and counter-tunnels,

radios screech and televisions scream, curse and lie;

[Parliament has fallen:

there they elude, despise and insult each other with anger, they defeat themselves with clumsy democracy, without civil lights or mercy]

… Therefore, what, what is a fallen rose worth and then another,

and another,

and another…!

On higher parallel, the meridian and history repeat themselves,

and there, precisely, is where the terrestrial angel of extermination is offended and rises, decrees and shudders;

[because we need, yes, that they help us, but no, no and never that they assume our duties and tasks]

… Will they return and, once again, will the allies win? Can we grow, will we survive?

oh, my friends, noises are heard nearby and I must immediately interrupt the night:

Remember, it’s June 27, 2012, don’t forget

from 2012,



«… that life to life and blow by blow we transform into light and immortal peaks

the unfortunate gullies of death ”;

let it be said and it remains said,

because all history and mythology, all beauty and ash have returned,

they live

and they are here;

it shudders to see them be, or to lean out and tremble to erect that sea of ​​calamities

with which you, oh Hamlet, enunciated the existential doubt that burned you and that burns us:

Ah the moors of the world, the brave farm, the bitter, the hard grace of the heart still, still!

… Is it that someone will give up sleeping and even dreaming? And to die, will someone …?

and why not choose to live dying, why, why not,

if the spirit boils upright in every fire or living death without acrimony, without temple and without final interruption;

… no one with the dream has put an end to the sorrow of the heart, no one,

for that death is not a dream that he indolent and unconscious exercises after leaving behind the whirlwind of life;

… therefore, and from your own dilemma, from its very center, there is the silent pain, the passive bitterness,

and behold, Hamlet, more here, on this side and what a gift of today, the leading champion of the intimate and precious war;

… Is our tool in time with her faith and reason, her light and fearlessness;

oh, Hamlet, oh, Hamlet, we still hear it, it is your voice that speaks to us.


… The universe flows and marches with its immense load of living clocks, of living hearts, feet and hands;

It’s a pact of constellations and purple skies behind that incandescent rhythm

that in Africa music, the tropics and dance are true,

under this are huge songs and drums of the XXI;

… Because feeling and thinking, Africa senses itself and heals, heals,

– Well, malaria is no longer the law, and not cholera, not Ebola, not AIDS –

just when a sweet twilight light pours its tenderness through the potential forest of its plains;

… It is after this act that Africa ignites and creates, rises and shines,

Well, oh her gold brooches, and oh, oh her doublet with the diamond light;

and, these you see, these, are their nations, and they and they their champions, princes of their republic, the only one,

heirs of pain and birds of fire inventorying the sun, its thousand gods, planetary gyrations and sand;

… It is 6 o’clock in the world and it is night;

Over the radiance of the soul, Africa is a golden, crimson and open panther’s eye,

ebonies burning in a cendal,

a flower,

God at dawn;

… It’s your gift and it’s your time.


… Conceptually and concretely, man is an expression of the mathematical order of the world;

this truth with its diversity, complexity and richness, this gift,

Will it open our chest to the power with which the spirit breaks out and is?

oh thread of human pride, oh intimate exile, baluster of error and dregs of this feverish mind,

Well, at what moment do we violate and hide the roses,

the face of the god, his lineage,

the light,

the sky…

… ah freedom, freedom,

winged fire and lofty and beautiful sleeper, lost eternity,

our redeeming genius, our beloved child, our wounded god;

… From zero to infinity the numbers ride and dialogue, faint and die, are reborn,

and our blood intuits it, our reason announces it and our feet and arms design it;

… Ad exémplum: ah, Pythagoras and Euclides, Descartes and Leibniz, Tesla and Einstein,

friends, dear friends, return, return and continue;

Praise, praise to heroes of indelible deeds of immortal splendor!


… In my neighborhood violets grew;

eternity vibrated like instant / light, like dew flower,

as if all things had suddenly emerged pure, intact and perfect

to the beam of innocence;

[Thus, one day, the witch satrap flew by with the broken broom and fell rolling as satrap and as witch,

and, another, a man laughed and laughed because one afternoon, in the middle of the square, Christ was talking with us]

… in my neighborhood people cried and burned easily,

the world was breaking and we were putting it back together because, without knowing it,

we were the tin and also the bronzes and the fire of life;

… When I left him, I cried;

Now there are days when I look at children in their habitat of love and then with affection

I feel inside and mine the man of laughter, the witch satrap and the immortal patina of violets;

but nothing, nothing is so deep and clear to me as that subtle rumor with which we burn the hours in the streets:

the hypergalactic voice and light of the Christ.


like undefeated lovers, day by day they return across the seas, at night, at dawn;

In conches of fire, they have burned time and in it their hours and also their skin glow,

his pulse and voice,

his love and freedom;

… the orb has burned, and there, to the starting bed, they return unharmed and pure:

like rose and lily, like eardrums of sun and rain,

at night and dew;

… Through the north door of the body / temple, enter,

and, observing them, one intuits their light, their color and sound, the quantum of being,

and oh, also that fractal virtue, the unknown one, the one so intimate and alive, the one deep in the air.


… Imagine a universe burning and alive, and see and feel that you are at the same time the creative fire urging it,

and bringing it to be,

and the same universe at last;

Well, oh, oh that power that drags, the one that gives and exalts, the one that burns and cleanses the heart!

… because it might seem that the scorching wind, the one that melts and clarifies everything, does not exist,

ah, could, yes, could;

deadly opacity obstructs and clouds,

– Away, dominate –

and the conscience, in earthly reflection, succumbs and yields to that illusion, like an instant of the spirit;

… so:

A soccer game, a beer, a few laughs and the end…?

… I chose my father and mother from beyond death and I set fire and crossed, to return, the rivers of that death;

wanting to come to be reborn here, and thus, with my glories and disasters, quenched my thirst and freedom;

and that, that was the bastion of my argument.

THESEUS: his metaphysics

… sometimes, by or from the fire / sea of ​​the heart,

gullies open or avenues of enormous and ungovernable dimensions depart;

and, sometimes, and in that same fire, force and spring, a hunch breaks, another universe arises,

and it is then that forms and laws are instituted in him for the first time;

… but, while, without ceasing, and in war, life and death:

the minotaur and the labyrinth, violence, greed and passion in front of the Aryanic dagger of love,

– with enlightened mind –

that everything faces and everything wins;

Oh distinguished glimmer of Knossos, capital of the kingdom or our body,

oh intuition of spirit and soul, pointing to the holistic and precious yarn / ball:

the life one,

the gold one;

… and oh you, Theseus, immortal genius of courage, the one of subtle and quantum light,

spark of this god who, at the cost of suffering, seeks and fights, defeats evil, and guides us in himself and resuscitates us.


… On the most fragile flank, desolation haunts me, lulls me to sleep and hurts at the wrong time;

But in spite of everything, there is in me, I know, an eardrum of vigilant and vibrating light,

as if the conscience dared to open itself to a room of infinite intention,

as if time suddenly escaped, and as if everything, without further ado, emerges into the mind;

… It is difficult to be mortal, to hurt and suffer in front of the truth,

and, likewise, it is difficult to fight and regain control of the soul after dying or sleeping,

and with honor win;

… the dream is a prodigious ship, hypergalactic and quantum voyage,

god hunt in his own god;

calm, thus, understanding, dilute and redeem pain, comfort,

it even tends to decorate and raise the early mornings with that excellent shine that emanates so faintly

of the beautiful beings;

… Often, we witness our own resurrection crying,

for one comes to the thistles of the mountain and roses are the delights of the valley.


… From ineffable ages and dimensions we came, from the instruction and sowing of love,

to institute pure and living gold,

from there we came;

the guardian of distances, the healer of wounds and the constructor of sounds, preceded us;

crossing galaxies, planets and quasars, or dark matter,

It consists of piercing and warming the spirit, igniting its intimate rocks and communicating the world with light;

We were, then, a legion of fire and our drums, next to the living water,

they resounded and flashed through our burning hearts;

… When arriving at Vecilla de la Polvorosa, at its great Plaza Universal,

– still, and at that time –

the afternoon eye was a quantum and beautiful almond blossom shining in the snow;

we said goodbye, and, after seeing them leave, in my house of stone, straw and clay, on the lute of the soul, I sobbed:

it would take many, many eons to meet again and teach again with seeds of gold,

and this, just, when around here, Pisces, passed and passed offering only pain, pain and suffering;

… Meanwhile, the Heralds of Aquarius have opened their doors to me:

we are designing the emotion of the rose.

VALLEJO, unforgettable

… Because if from some external and precise place, with its power and tenderness, love were to flow or proceed,

Would we not go to meet him impatiently, or to his closeness and influence, or perhaps to his conquest?

But what if the heart was here, inside and with it, ignored or hidden,

quiet under walls or steel of man, what if you forget or swords …?


Sorry, sorry, and allow me my friend and exalted Peruvian, from Spain, to say today:

And it is that we still open chasms so deep in life, that you have to see, that you have to see!

[… Magical mountains and volcanoes without direction and wounded, either decimated or extinguished by the chest,

Dead stars and seas, atrocious panics lashing the soul, untamed and eternal,

icy flares like icebergs covering it and drowning it, killing it]

… And hours and days and years will ride and disappear with this internal and pure fire, denied or obstructed,

Living gleams with their thick nuts and bolts, with drawn shutters and locks,

and they will pass, and they will pass, and they will pass;

Ah, terrestrial symbolism: this darkness and this condemnation,

ah, ah my god, what a ruin, what a huge sadness remains here!

… and it is that we still open chasms so deep in life, that you have to see, that you have to see!

POEM OF 11-11-2012

… in the middle of the night, with the earth in flight, and transparent, I detect and look, among my god, the light of the soul,

and, there is, singing in it, an enormous and delicious son,

and a blazing fire,

and a rain;

… but no, it did not go through this very moment – I observe and say – the iron age and its moan,

and not Achilles and Hector, not Alexander, and no, they didn’t do it too, and perhaps Hannibal and Scipio the African?

Didn’t even Barak Obama himself, last 6, win the elections …?

… This light is lived as if one were a somewhat termini, intimate, extremely alone,

and as if emotion finally filled a timeless hunger for infinite value and count;

and it costs, it costs to go back and cough again here, it costs to adjust the bones, the blood and breathe,

occupy the skin and assume this deep labyrinth and its pain, inhale it with faith, live it, and decide to continue;

… and nothing, nothing will indicate science, today, about this capital lapse, nothing,

but you will intuit, or even know or already know, that this light of the soul exists,

and perhaps they will begin to search through their bodies or lives for that fold or faint glow of their presence;

… The curtain falls;

we close the poem, friends, and, with it, the book of the mythical, the historical and the true;

imagination is flower or ax, and primordial sustenance, and law, and vital and authentic conception of the world.


1 – The flight of light

2 – Chronicle of air and fire

3 – Of poetry and its value

4 – Trial test

5 – Risen

6 – Of that necessary kiss

7 – Life span

8 – Paladins

9 – Like opening a river

10 – This sore

11 – Germination

12 – Cosmic Sagas

13 – Exaltation

14 – Parentheses

15 – Ritual of the rose

16 – Breaths

17 – From this time

18 – Woman

19 – Don’t die

20 – Poetic Rebellion

21 – We are

22 – Of the work of the stone

23 – Poppy Field

24 – Earth coordinates

25 – General consideration of sadness

26 – Wish Body

27 – Mother

28 – Sickle of Reason

29 – Of joy

30 – Signs of 3,000

31 – Combat of the XXI

32 – Solstice

33 – Predictions

34 -Enter the heart

35 – Observing The Pleiades

36 – Come and have a look

= = =


… And the morning comes and rises alone, clear, enormous, luminous;

my heart looks at her, and knows, for an instant, that she will conquer trembling and unusual astonishment,

and that also darkness will conquer, and that also, also death;

[being born, being born and going forward and upward, and filling, and rising;

so, and today,

such is and goes the light]

and it is that, sometimes, in this way joy grows and shines, intimate immortality,

even the ethic of evil as she roars, screams and thumps, watching her end, transfigured,.

in limpid essences of love and silence;

… Ah, if we could buy this prodigy with a market basket;

ah, if we could radiate her power through chairs and thrones, through pulpits, dais, parliaments,.

and oh, if we could only remember him and with him, and from him, live!

… too busy, too deadly and too harsh in the voice still,

Too much too much;

… and with that immense verve – lofty, healing and universal, and which from another world –

everything shines, fulfills and disappears to renew its strength, and quickly, and with a new face,


… Therefore, and being so – tell me – the flight of light, who, who stops it.


… If the air arose or came from the dark heat,

– of that fire, I mean, of the primal and quantum –

that same fire in my eyes huddles and glows today,

in my irises it lights,

in my pupils, it burns;

like an Aleph, the universe vibrates here and it’s blue,

it exhibits itself and laughs, observes and sings, and also cries, whispers and dies;

… ageless,

he and I look at each other and unite under that holistic and subtle commotion of the ineffable,

under a voracious fire that unites and welds us,

the same one with which at this very moment the walls of this house are burning and sustaining themselves in their being;

… who, who would say that a sea of ​​rock has come and caught fire in my eyes,

or how to explain this divine fire, if my tongue is gray and my mouth is roaring with stones!