Dog Barking At The Moon

The routine is gently settling back to its usual lazy self. Lazy because unwilling to try and bend the rule every so slightly. I do not know if it will be possible for me to succeed in the various tasks that I am now enterprising. Most of all, I would like to go back to writing again. If not intensely, at least seriously and regularly. There is this fear which grips my heart whenever I think about committing myself to writing again. But I always wonder why? Why be afraid? Failure is a possibility, but so is pleasure... and even better, success. Writing makes me so happy, why deny myself the pleasure? That's so silly. As that character in Strictly Ballroom said "A life lived in fear, is a life half lived." Et vlan!



Neftalí take me away... embrace me with your rhymes and cover me with your sonnets... allow me to breathe the perfume of your poetry and transport me to a world where feelings can turn into words... words that can turn me into a soft mound of contentment... contentment that I wish will turn into happiness....

Oda a la luz encantada

La luz bajo los árboles,
la luz del alto cielo.
La luz
verde
enramada
que fulgura
en la hoja
y cae como fresca
arena blanca.

Una cigarra eleva
su son de aserradero
sobre la transparencia.

Es una copa llena
de agua
el mundo.



The weary one, orphan
of the masses, the self,
the crushed one, the one made of concrete,
the one without a country in crowded restaurants,
he who wanted to go far away, always farther away,
didn't know what to do there, whether he wanted
or didn't want to leave or remain on the island,
the hesitant one, the hybrid, entangled in himself,
had no place here: the straight-angled stone,
the infinite look of the granite prism,
the circular solitude all banished him:
he went somewhere else with his sorrows,
he returned to the agony of his native land,
to his indecisions, of winter and summer.