(Behind a rainbow of sorrows)
(1/2)
The red time, the west of the scintillating flesh will:
drains like a drop of water,
filtered by the gravity of the sump,
turns insomnia into a debt,
underlines the same as the newspaper ad.
The blue dream, stretch of clouds, darkness, total shine!:
spins in the air like a coin
mutates like an addiction without impasse,
throw stones at the trees of memory,
dream grotto of light in the dark.
The orange tongue, pale line, silence, stubborn sunset?:
sow a seedling of words,
fertilizes its roots with readers,
water his land, talk to him about the pause,
harvest fruits before rodents.
The yellow river, like the veins of the collapsed mountains:
equal to the garbage cans of the house,
pollution in our pink minds,
fires because of our soft hands,
portraits of: why should things be taken care of?
(2/2)
Gris, the crossroads of an achromatic red
the chameleon’s festive pearl
the excuse of light
the terrifying sect of psychedelia
the last person to sleep turns off the light
Green and jíbaro road, holy sinners the patacones!:
save the hearts that feed on the ranch
and like Don Amaro we “make ourselves” sleepy
before Tadeo the “parish priests” pray to Sancho
for the causes the appetites and the utopias to the whirlpools
Indigo sand, desire from fire, desire from ice:
From very small molecules play to shine
until a boy alone in the window watches them
his mother mending clothes on the sewing machine
outside the universe explodes, but he never lets go of his kite
Violeta, sings: “Go back to seventeen, suddenly be again”
How much ambition are we in other lips?
“How to get out of this sad canteen that is the soul?”
How many pieces are we among more pieces?
Is writing poetry correcting our childhood?
There is mist in my heart
(Behind a rainbow of sorrows)
(1/2)
The red time, the west of the scintillating flesh will:
drains like a drop of water,
filtered by the gravity of the sump,
turns insomnia into a debt,
underlines the same as the newspaper ad.
The blue dream, stretch of clouds, darkness, total shine!:
spins in the air like a coin
mutates like an addiction without impasse,
throw stones at the trees of memory,
dream grotto of light in the dark.
The orange tongue, pale line, silence, stubborn sunset?:
sow a seedling of words,
fertilizes its roots with readers,
water his land, talk to him about the pause,
harvest fruits before rodents.
The yellow river, like the veins of the collapsed mountains:
equal to the garbage cans of the house,
pollution in our pink minds,
fires because of our soft hands,
portraits of: why should things be taken care of?
(2/2)
Gris, the crossroads of an achromatic red
the chameleon’s festive pearl
the excuse of light
the terrifying sect of psychedelia
the last person to sleep turns off the light
Green and jíbaro road, holy sinners the patacones!:
save the hearts that feed on the ranch
and like Don Amaro we “make ourselves” sleepy
before Tadeo the “parish priests” pray to Sancho
for the causes the appetites and the utopias to the whirlpools
Indigo sand, desire from fire, desire from ice:
From very small molecules play to shine
until a boy alone in the window watches them
his mother mending clothes on the sewing machine
outside the universe explodes, but he never lets go of his kite
Violeta, sings: “Go back to seventeen, suddenly be again”
How much ambition are we in other lips?
“How to get out of this sad canteen that is the soul?”
How many pieces are we among more pieces?
Is writing poetry correcting our childhood?