Poesía - 4

Amid the blaze of fire,

she dances alive,

bowed down upon the presence

of fiery creatures,

which, casted, burn and smoke

and cry their spirits out

majestically following the music’s flow.

A feathered mask hides her face,

and conceals more than a girl’s game,

for, yes! she dances alive,

but in her steps she carries

the whole weight of the World

finely weaven in the colours

of feathers of dead ancient birds.

Poesía - 3

The golden light of dusk,
fed her eyes, her face and hair,
and turned on fire the most
beautiful linen dress.

Not the sand under her feet,
nor the sea to which she gave warmth,
could keep me from gazing,
at such a wonderful sight.

And she turned on her dance,
the welcomed marine breeze,
to which her sacred white dress kept beat,
chanelling my every sense into the deepest bliss.

Yet, my every intent to approach her,
were deseperately vain, as she followed
to turn and turn, fading out, growing pale,
turning my sweet princess, into a forgone tale.

Poesía - 2

Merely seconds on hearing the sounds,

of chords and pipes of drunks,

remnants of a passion I’d once be proud to feel;

of a voice by vice and the beauty of rhymes undone,

I again find myself at the terrible empty lines,

and I have nothing to say,

not one word of beauty, nor one I could possibly mean.

And yet, all these glimpses of grief, of a

crazy love, or a stab of words rather unsaid;

for my sweet love is marred; I know we feel,

just the exact same thing, her eyes, or

a smile that strokes my heart, her words,

they all confess, alas, always by a

liquor-softened heart. How can I possibly

comply with a sacred vow of one, when

she’s not one, but her splitting mind

drives my soul to a hurtful cry.