La mujer también es poesía... la más hermosa poesía jamás creada por Dios o el hombre...

thought...

No one can die after living for you ... only roams the world without soul or heart ...

Pensamiento...

No se puede morir después de haber vivido por tí... solo se vaga por el mundo sin alma ni corazón...

Pieza musical:
Prelude and Fugue No. 8 in E Flat Minor, BWV 853

Letter to the air...

I begin to miss you again. They all say that it's not possible that after so much time in which I have not seen you at least, much less to know of you, it could have slightly so called love. I do not know it. Suddenly I meet wrapped in memories, the few ones that I have, of brief instants that we share. I believe that two months were alone or more of our friendship. And there are not even full the hollows of these moments, more the few ones that I have me are sufficient to be surprised so much.
It is those who say that alone it is an obsession. Obsession of what? Of looking for yourself? If I have not even taken the inconvenience to look for yourself; of having yourself? If I never had you. You were never mine in any aspect and I never occupied a space in your head, according to all, because you were never thinking about me. Though it is said that you gave me, at some time, being completely intoxicated I, a kiss. Obsession of having yourself? If I have fulfilled my promise not to look for yourself and not to be a hindrance. Obsession, certainly, is a tenacious idea of the head. So there are only you. And you are not even what I was dreaming. Only you are a series of recollections. But, why do I rack brains whenever I dream you? Whenever your voice resounds in me, whenever I imagine you to smile and to meet. Or that you wrinkle the eyebrows in a gesture of small girl? Why I wish the better thing you and prefer suffering to wishing you badly, regardless the hurt that you me caused and that I you caused?
The reality is that I think that it's love. But as the others they know more it brings over of me; since they all know me better than I, since they all BELIEVE that they are better than I, for the alone fact of which I do not have an exact control of my feelings, since they all say that it is not a love. They all can question me with questions of things neither that nor I know, but they cannot feel what I feel. Because of it some time ago I buried my heart. Because of it.
Some time ago I wanted to arrange the things. Only to know that it happened. With the time I have understood that I will never have the truth and it hurts me very much, because of all the things that I will never know, this one is the only one that matters for me indeed. When I hid my heart far from me, solve only in a temporary way the question of not knowing anything of you. But only it is it: a temporary solution. The "onirísmo" that chases me day after day, complicating my existence with situations that do not compete with the royal life does that every instant is furthermore long still. Sad. But royal, at the end of accounts.
I need you. This is the reality. With you, in our ephemeral stage of friendship, I felt plenary session, since it was doing more than one decade that he it was not feeling with any woman. And always I said it. And as unattainable object of my love, you were too much; you transfigured yourself into something that goes beyond my madder dreams. And though now this hollow where my heart must be - metaphorically - - has been very nice, already I feel that this object wants to come untied. But I am afraid of that it does and discovers that the whole feeling follows intact that, they should say what they should say, it is a love. What will I do when the moment comes? Of that you will serve me, if I will never return to see you? ….

carta al aire...

Comienzo a extrañarte de nuevo. Todos dicen que no es posible que después de tanto tiempo en que no te he visto siquiera, mucho menos saber de ti, pueda tener algo llamado amor. No lo sé. De pronto me veo envuelto en memorias, las pocas que tengo, de instantes breves que compartimos. Creo que fueron solo dos meses o más de nuestra amistad. Y ni siquiera están llenos los huecos de esos momentos, más los pocos que tengo me son suficientes para extrañarte tanto.
Hay quienes dicen que solo es una obsesión. ¡obsesión de qué? ¿de buscarte? si ni siquiera me he tomado la molestia de buscarte; ¿de tenerte? Si nunca te tuve. Nunca fuiste mía en ningún aspecto y nunca ocupe un espacio en tu cabeza, según todos, porque jamás pensabas en mí. Aunque se dice que me diste, alguna vez, estando yo completamente ebrio, un beso. ¿obsesión de tenerte? Si he cumplido mi promesa de no buscarte y de no ser un estorbo. Obsesión, ciertamente, es una idea tenaz de la cabeza. Pues allí estas solamente. Y ni siquiera eres lo que yo soñara. Solo eres una serie de recuerdos. Pero, ¿por qué me estrujo cada vez que te sueño? ¿cada vez que tu voz resuena en mí, cada vez que te imagino sonreír y verme. O que frunzas el seño en un gesto de niña pequeña? ¿Por qué te deseo lo mejor y prefiero sufrir a desearte mal, a pesar de todo el daño que me causaste y que te causé?
La realidad es que yo pienso que es amor. Pero como los demás saben más acerca de mí; como todos me conocen mejor que yo, como todos CREEN que son mejores que yo, por el solo hecho de que no tengo un control exacto de mis sentimientos, pues todos dicen que no es amor. Todos pueden cuestionarme con preguntas de cosas que ni yo sé, pero no pueden sentir lo que yo siento. Por eso hace tiempo enterré mi corazón. Por eso.
Hace tiempo quise arreglar las cosas. Solo saber que pasó. Con el tiempo he comprendido que jamás tendré la verdad y me duele mucho, porque de todas las cosas que jamás sabre, esta es la única que me importa de verdad. Cuando escondí mi corazón lejos de mí, soluciones solo de manera temporal la cuestión de no saber nada de ti. Pero solo es eso: una solución temporal. El oneirismo que me persigue día a día, complicando mi existencia con situaciones que no compiten con la vida real hace que cada instante sea aún más largo todavía. Triste. Pero real, a final de cuentas.
Me haces falta. Esa es la realidad. Contigo, en nuestra efímera etapa de amistad, me sentí pleno, como hacía más de una década que no lo sentía con mujer alguna. Y siempre lo dije. Y como objeto inalcanzable de mi amor, fuiste demasiado; te transfiguraste en algo que va más allá de mis sueños más locos. Y aunque ahora ese hueco donde debiera estar -metafóricamente- mi corazón- ha estado muy bien, ya siento que ese objeto se quiere desatar. Pero tengo miedo de que lo haga y descubra que sigue intacto todo el sentimiento que, digan lo que digan, es amor. ¿Qué haré cuando llegue el momento? ¿de que me servirás, si jamás volveré a verte?….

My mask (English version)

Under my face, there, where my intelligence hurts me
 And it rots while kills me, my mask is.
 It´s my second skin, tender which calls me
 To inform myself about the new ones of my soul.
 My mask is like those Japaneses,
 A white and smooth skin; a smile and a few inclement eyes.
 My mask is hurry and weeping, cloud and ceiling.
 It is tear and laugh; greeting and scorn.
 My mask is glad in nude showing me
 Because of my suffering it brightens his sight
 And it redoubles his effort.
My mask asphyxiates me
 Since he translates my flat thought
 And he hides when he considers
 That the convenience can give him a better act.
 My mask is evasive when he is looked
 And it is arrogant when she is not needed, this way it appears,
 Coarse, arrogant, apprehensive.
 If one sees him in a made mirror of the child's weeping,
 To temperature of crystallized emptiness,
 It can turn only in the half and in another hemisphere
 My unsteady face, crying.
 But also he shares, for the destination and his urgency
 The sensations that uncertain overwhelm me.
 Sometimes my mask takes possession of me
 And it takes me of walk along the streets
 Of the city that so much I love and that dominates me.
It establishes an action plan and sensually it seduces me.
 It takes action of my body and leads me to walking.
 It shows the better thing of me while it dominates me
 And slowly it indicates me since it me will destroy.
 Sometimes it is by night, sometimes in the tide of the day.
 Do never be when it will leave me in account
 Of what it will end tormenting myself the sight,
 Because it leaves me opposite the house of that girl.
 The one that hurts me, which me to feeling sorry it incites.
 And while I fall to the floor, free to cry,
 My mask hides in order that they do not see her,
 In order that they do not blame her. In order that they do not irritate her,
 In order that they do not look for her.
 And it makes me pushed suffering the torture of knowing
 That another day will begin again the dance
 That in me the age fades …