Thoughts Of A Man In Times Of Freedom

Marvelous flames are the ones invading my heart,
not of passion nor love,
they are of dead,
the world is their fuel.

Life is to unearthly know I built a wall,
between fullness and myself.
We had restricted living, with time,
and we had restricted time, with the world.

In this times of isolation, of cold,
those flames heat my thinking.
Is that much the noise in my soul?
Do am I less human thanks to all that matter in myself?

I pray for silence on myself.
I pray for that entity that is called “me” to transcend.
I pray for praying.
I pray to be quit.

In this loneliness habits the color,
there is more wind,
more melodies,
more life.

Inside this solitude is where deaf, I hear,
where blind, I look,
where dumb, I sing,
where dead, I live.

The dawn and dusk has an hour:
I don’t have time,
The world doesn’t have time!
And is getting late for living,

if there isn’t hour for dying
maybe it is because time doesn’t matter:
Without time, isn’t getting late for living.
The watch is so heavy that stifles the soul.

I pray know for not living between clock hands,
for not living in the sound.
I pray for dispel the incandescent flames
and support flames of life.

Father: I don’t ask you to talk,
I ask you for me to listen.
Mother: I don’t ask your love,
I ask for me to love.

Son, I don’t ask your serving,
I beg you for letting me serve.
I beg for been human in a world without men,
without life.

I want to be worthy of humanity,
to serve, love and listen to life,
overshadowed by world men,
hidden under the rubble of the human soul.

To you, world man:
Listen the melody trapped in the sound.
Measure life with charity, not with seconds;
with sacrifice, not with claims.

To you, world man:
Jump of your buildings
and fly in the sky.
Look to the plenitude of life.

To you, world man:
Be humble, because in poverty,
you’ll be richer than in arrogance.
You have more to give in your knees than in your pockets.

To you, world man:
Love with faith, not with flesh.
Faith in your love, increases it.
Flesh only imprisons your love.

We are called the creation of the creations;
however, below us exists a lot more beauty
than in the putrid flesh we dress.
We have decomposed.

I pray for my folk,
people of world,
so we open ourselves to the truth
and close to selfishness.

Seek for straightness, for love.
Let us open our eyes,
that in the glance of God is more for men
than in the material enjoyment.

Let us pray for being of God and not of world.

Repression of Life, Expression of Dead

Today I saw Mr. John kill someone.
I saw exactly how it happened,
as everyone at the bar.

I’ve been hearing what they are telling to the police:
“John entered and shot him in the head,
after that , he shoot himself.”

That isn’t my side of the story,
not what my old eyes looked.
It wasn’t as simple as that.

There was a man,
Mr. John is how he was called;
he had a wife, and he hate her deeply.

People say: “Behind a great man, there is even a better woman.”}
But I say: “Behind a regular guy,
there is a deceiver.

John was a regular guy,
with Muriel his wife,
a deceiver.

John used to sing,
to paint.
To talk.

Mr. John can’t sing,
paint or
talk.

John was like my brother,
was the best man at my wedding
and my baby doll’s godfather.

He used to laugh,
to live,
he used to exist…

until her.

She does sing,
paint and
talk, but

she sings the shouts,
paint black and white,
and talk non-sense.

That is Muriel,
Mr. John’s wife,
the deceiver.

I guess everyone needs it,
I suppose he looked for it.
I know he found it.

Everyone need a life,
there are times when we just have a way,
sometimes the most desperate.

He took his shotgun,
and saw Muriel directly in her eyes,
just to let her know what he lose;

he went out
and look for Muriel’s dad
just to let him know;

he found it at the bar,
the deceiver’s creator.
He didn’t thought it twice, and shoot him.

I guess everyone needs it,
and we need to look for it,
when you find it, is when you’ll know you’re alive.

Mr. John heard the music of caps falling.
He saw the color, in the blood.
He finally talked, through the shotgun;

so let me correct what they say it happened:
“Mr. John entered and shot him,
after that, John shoot himself;

finally Mr. John, the deceiver’s husband,
was dead,
although,


my great friend,
John,
was brought back from the dead, and believe me:

He was alive.

Naturaleza de Mujer

Me he dado cuenta. Percaté lo que sientes y miré tu dolor. Observando tu montaje escénico de estrellas pensé en la belleza de tu piel y después, tu reproche exclamaste. Ventanales sonoros revolcaron mi sosiego, tus gritos agudos de dolor resaltaban y golpeaban mi escuchar; reclamabas. Gritabas por todo lo que te hemos dejado: llagas por incendios y cicatrices por la economía. Aparentemente representante de los hombres me convertí y ante tu reproche, silencio tuve que guardar.

Grandes diluvios arrojaste; tus lágrimas buscando un por qué, arrasaban con las grandes ciudades que diario te lastimaban. Suspiros y dolor tuyo golpeaban mi cuerpo en pequeños mililitros de amargura; fríos y solitarios mililitros los que reclamaban esa soledad. Convirtiéndose en granizo rompían mi piel, abriéndola en sangre.

Sentí tu lejanía, quise confortarte, sin embargo realicé que no sabía cómo; a pesar del tiempo que me has cuidado, no te conocía, ignoraba lo que fuiste para mí y así tuve que seguir pasos atrás de ti, sin palabras de consuelo.

Nieve comenzó a caer, cubriéndonos a nosotros ignorantes, y pensé en todo ese frío que guardaste desde siglos atrás, toda esa soledad. En ira estallaste, y abriendo suelos y calcinando con grandes relámpagos te vengaste; físico y en guardia te defendiste, como mujer cuya dignidad fue arrebatada, respondiste.

Con tus mares sepultaste nuestra historia, una que escribimos con sangre, un relato que al final no habló de los logros de los hombres, sino del maltrato a una mujer que nunca fue comprendida, hasta hoy.