The night is blue, but very cold
(say several degrees below zero).
Sitting in front of the Calle Calle,
watch the return of the boatmen.
...
I wear a coat and a beret
loom thick
............................
The river is calm and inviting me to think
.
.
I get up and walk
eager for the green shore ....
try to evoke those afternoons
in which, like a demented
that
stops time to dream, I walked
unconscious,
the silvery water,
without fear of sinking into the abyss
real and imminent.
.
The night is very cold,
but the river is silver, has llegdo
the Moon.
... and blue crosses,
as warm shade
enveloping my soul
.
The night is very cold ...
and I no longer dream
of so sweet looking.
.
Oh, Life!
I ask forgiveness for flying
with
borrowed wings of imagination;
forgiveness for my verses extolling
unreal;
forgiveness, for knowingly
reason I did not want.
.
Oh, Life!
but I must tell
in "unreal time"
met and lived experiences
Beautiful ...
... and (as a poet):
"No matter that last
it lasts a rose
.
Oh Life!
Poetry is
that makes me scream like no
in these cold nights.
... You see .....
Luna ... Luna remains
keeping secrets
of naked souls.!
