From many places, speaking truth
and making magic happen. Celebrating language.

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August Moon Footsteps Portable Magnificence
In the Sound of Telemann The Countdown of Seconds In My Confining Shoes
Don't Cry The Hole Sighs and Deals
Memorial The Dark Chest
The Painting I've Changed
The Life of The Wind The Blue Winter
Inner Island
Party of Oblivion Sometimes His Mouth Existed
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August Moon

The August moon from one side
the sunset from the other
in between the sea
was opening its veins

A song was coming
phosphorescing inside the strings of wind:
"The gods are dancing
with their one eye to the heights..."

But a prophet grieved
shaking his cloak:
"Only the trees I regret
that remain in the five winds!
Today their leaves are sold
tomorrow their sides
cost death"


One kiss
hidden behind the skins of trees
was singing dirges for the falling leaves

And that frozen air was shivering
the forest of men

They bent till they left
the footsteps of their songs

Portable Magnificence

You must go away
the dead body is polluting you

Wake up my love
You must go away

The world's protagonists
drop life
above your house
with portable magnificence


In the Sound of Telemann

In your memory
I devoted
the following verse

I said,
how you drop
more waste tonight

The oratorio
drives me crazy,
lives that I lived
turn me in the void

Tell me
is it valuable to imagine
old rains
in the sound of Telemann?

The Countdown of Seconds

Surviving one
with two destinies
and verses hung
from the hook of signs
only you
from the tall winter
go down
in the deep land

Words written
in the entry
ask you to return
to the world's
narcotic silence

are rolling late
in the rain
you should find
a taxi
in the fever
of the hung vehicles

The down town
keeps well
the bones of living
their knees

I know your way
Address: Emissions
could I forget
the sharp gravestones
and the big doors
that open
and never close
the countdown of seconds

Have you understood?
The countdown of seconds!

In My Confining Shoes

In these shoes confining me
a lot was written
the legs
were burdened
the friends
burdened like ice
fallen in the afternoon...

In my closet
I put thyme
from my hands
a red place
timbers pointed
and on them
leaves hiding
some yesterday...

Something new
fried fresh

Imprisoning Lions
keep my thoughts
before they crystallize
in the distress of pain
the pain
of the afternoon...

Don't Cry

Don't cry for me
because I
never cried

Don't dream for me
because I
never dreamed

I am punished
because your heart
sorrows for me

I raise my eyes
to you
who calls to me

Make the debt of teardrops
my heart requires
to come out of darkness
and stretch your hands
up to the end
of dawn

The Hole

I'm calling you
from the hole
under your chair

I am an abyss,
a well
a black voice
from the universe

I'm singing for you
Till you fall

Another will come
I'll ask him, too

Another and another and another...
Always to empty the chair
From the group of dead
the half we have left

You don't listen to me!
How long shall I wait?

Sighs and Deals

As of today
I saw your glance
for the first time
the clouds
that you bring into mind

Your marks
on the dirty jacket
remind me of blood
and feathers
nailing its back
free of charge

I wonder what the angel
of the city seeks
in the Square
with a flag that waves
sighs and deals?


The way sun recycles

wet cotton

in the sky's blood

I drew you in front of me

weaving dark and light

with my figures

Swollen immortal page

blew into multicolored lines,

thin body figures

quiet and nice, I felt

your thought that is sleeping

the body of the past

under your dense hair

Deep in sleepy eye-holes

your memory

was not of existing things

The Dark Chest

He stretched his hand

looking with discretion

strings of dark

music of touch

blushed the window's delicate cheeks

and the train rings

climbing the dark echo-shell

through the fingers

turning back to my mind

The gift was

taken by soul

A desirable weight was

a rhapsody

sweetening the life rubble

Imaginary sounds

The gift was

bent over the opposite bank

stretched the hands

to know the night

Dense like stars' material

the dark chest was collecting

the hinted ones by the hands

The Painting I've Changed

The sky was wrapped by the night sheet

The small door of the stone house creaked

showing off a yellow light

The man wedged his figure

bending his head

The door closed

and the ground smell

calmed down the birds

The wind spread wings

languidly and flew on

The house, lonely

around hills,


wet grass

an old cart

raised its long arm to the sky

The velvet mauve night

kissed with gentleness and love

the fairy folk of the wood

The man's prayer

opened up the door of a dream

and silver chord

melodies of time silver-plated

The Life of The Wind

White marble emerges

over red roses

like a white belt

surrounding the garden's music

It sprouts

where people lived, sometimes

emerging like a hymn

in the blue sky columns

Push inside me the clouds

this day; full of heat

is the religious life of the wind

that has found me

at the light,

the travelers dissolved

and the red-rose collars.

Tell me more

than I remember,

life of the wind

The Blue Winter

I fear the black dress
In the blue winter

Diaphanous white hands,
Invisible eyes

Crystal touch
Of evaporated sweat

To enter the chamber
I feared with the varnish smell

The knocks of my heart boiling
Hands thin and frozen,

Unfinished shaking
The stage inverted

But the black dress
And the varnish smell

Have slipped from the bright crack
In the blue winter

Inner Island

Deserted animal the man!

Nestles into the island
of an inner world
unsplit and despairing

He holds half of the map
He hides the other

One margin is perishable
with a supposed beginning

The other slips...

If perhaps
something inappropriate
occupies the island
like the lair of a wolf
don't say to me:

The island is corrupt!


Party of Oblivion

The past is a scale...

From its tightened lips
pleasures rattle death
search for a place

And a lot of corpses
pass unknowingly
from the vaccines of the city

Play bets
while other speak
bent to the window

Party of oblivion

In the depths a figure
puts waste straight

Provokes the eye

The spectators behind

None believes
In the necks of the pedestrians

Almost no one
runs through
the distance of centuries


Sometimes His Mouth Existed

Some nights
the shirt burns
the street shouts:

I cannot
a person

I look at his shoes...

Both raise a man up
when paving-stone roads rip
their sticking voices

A man
whose mouth sometimes existed



Who looked for my corpse
in the cold rain?
who said:

  A tree hangs
its shoes
are moving by themselves

  In the streets
a whistling
burns my lips

that nothing of salvation
has appeared
since you came