Category: Poems

A Gentle Breeze from the East Seductive as poppy pours dawn its red over the lake a pleasure for the eye a lukewarm wind from the East caresses

      Window III                                                                    Chile You, little troubadour, who opens the mornings, tell me: When the cherry tree dies, will you return at dawn and sing

        At night I write from the bed and plunder the fruits of darkness to exchange them for coins made of words. While herding words

In the waves The sea so green and so open I have my feet in the water I see fishes in the waves the summer the summer arrived

What It Is It is nonsense says reason It is what it is says love It is misfortune says calculation It is only pain says fear It is

The rose of writing to Tulio Mora To court her, to transplant her, poets, to the white sheet, to caress her thorn, till it bleeds aroma and colours

We were not born for days like these In one’s life, days like these should never happen again Such a thing Such a thought Such a day should

Writing Poetry Writing poetry is breaking the still-warm bread of dreams, throwing the crumbs to seagulls which appea on the secret shore. Rarely the crumb stops in mid-flight

Become a River If you spend your entire life dealing with impostors and cheats, how can you be surprised when everyone recognizes you are a swindler? Anger threatens

Recognition Not every river leads to the greater water of the sea nor reaches every road its goal step by step dawn removes the night and sometimes offers