Al principio de los tiempos nada era estable...
Todos eran sólo proto planetas, esferas gaseosas y con cambios climáticos inmensurablemente inimaginables...
Y pasaron miles de millones de años antes que los primeros seres humanos poblaran lo que hoy amamos y llamamos tierra, aunque debería ser planeta agua, pero, esa es otra historia...
The sands of time keep time when my lips are healed of your absence, religion is rarely mixed with science, such as sugar to salt, oil, water, vagueness and awareness, twister in the desert, that forgotten beach in eternity, your share of heaven with my piece of hell, there are things in life that can never be together, but the only way I dare to say never, is to face walls, myths, criminals, cursing that we want to separate ; to face challenges with new tools, innovating on excellence, with fallacy of excess, nicknames, buzzwords unwise.
The scent of the fields after a rain with your arrival, the cold Andean, with your baseball and my football, among orchids and Turks, sharing laughs and tricks, seven colors, desserts and sins, rising samsara, surrounding elements, losing account of these and torture, leaving pending drop dead, or you stay alive, imagining new encounters, your touch and old wrongs, which shall resolve to join my efforts as driving a car with frosted paint and broken wheel, with more centimeters in the waist and in the midst of this uproar.
When the clock strikes one, I would not see the sun and the moon, when the trees move with fervor, you would like your rumor give me the courage to pass the hate and resentment, anxiety and fear. And to think that when an angel dreams of others are set to sing a symphony.
The time is sprouting and can be buried,
There are great moments and underworld;
spaces of time where dreams or nightmares live...
The time now is energy,
and can be clean or that one which contaminates.
Creo tener ideas,
Cuando esa terraza,
Se movían árboles,
Por sinuoso cielo,
Poder tocar frutos,
Como aquellos cerezos,
Sin abrojo, ameno,
Con almizcle, incienso,
Arte en movimiento,
Delicia de sabores,
Néctar para invierno;
Algodones no nativos,
Hilados para arropar,
Miradas furtivas sobran,
Palabras airadas también…
No es haiku, greguería,
O una mezcla de nuestro son,
El degustar un suave vino,
A medida de tu sabor,
Siniestra mano que a veces plena,
Aún rememora una mala canción,
¿Y caerán mañana las hojas del mango?
¿Y brotarán nuevos dátiles en aquel desierto?
¿Las vides que consumieron alguna vez?
¿Sobrarán muchas más comidas?
¿El aire se purificará?
¿Dejaréis de desperdiciar agua?
¿O es sólo un vano deseo de mero mortal?
