jueves, 18 de septiembre de 2014
domingo, 23 de marzo de 2014
Ruby bloody guts
caught in a white noise
seashell's rumor within the veins
a piece of chalk on the forefinger
Who knows best?
Only the river can know for sure
what it takes on its trip to the sea.
Remnants of anger
and fear and lust
blossom in small birds
around the water
to sing bridges to life, to joy
to deeper roots of silence
where abyssal anemones
glow drawing inner maps
and memorials of catastrophes
turn into dust gleams.
domingo, 16 de marzo de 2014
I'm preparing for an impersonal battle.
I ain't fighting for myself
or anyone else.
There is no country nor nation involved.
And, there is no meaning in winning or losing.
Thus, there will be death.
And the sun will rise again
over the devastated lands
to shine on one single weed
awakening for its "meant to be".