Marcela, Alicia, and all the good old band of Canottieri Italiani: a clear Rodo! Andrea, Bob, Pocho, Miguelito, Matute, Peri, etc etc. (If I forgot someone, no offense, porfa: are the years ...)
Ah, how sweet it is November!
With flowers dance nap
closing their rite.
A ceibo behind coral
dreams goodbye.
closing their rite.
A ceibo behind coral
dreams goodbye.
afternoon lingered with flimsy excuses.
rudder cadence,
with sequins
undresses fingers in the pot sunsets, gentle poet
water
wood elf, not East
.
O yes.
I only wish they were from the East,
the woods!
Meanwhile, the oars
the rhythmic pounding
forms the only music that the island undecided
Aphrodite
serving the heart. Arcos
of strokes,
anagrams of the docks, water
unpublished staves.
The cicadas announce summer sun replicated plumes
in air, in frogs and crickets
exasperated January
violet sky,
of the first star.
Y. .. the rite, the River.
River, violated
by haste and returns, for the day
escape hatch
prayers. Guitar
libertine.
be in the fire
roasted peppers, lemon scent
...
And that jasmine in my mouth.
Towards the end, just as the moon
, capricious
quarter waning or growing
comes to games of hide,
mirrored sky ... Words of Love
And Satin, Silence. Silence
sheared, torn. Strange
fullness of hissing,
of nodules plant senses
of insomniacs. Silence
just browsed by elves water wave
read stories and old waders.
Silence, the arenite
that can touch
not yield their secrets. Or
of bluebells violets
outdated, almost silvery
open ether.
From the moon, work and magic.
That kind of silence that silences the fanfare,
exacerbates the senses, and discover
,
night and floral, caressing
sometimes you ignore
is capable of giving and receiving.
And that jasmine in my mouth ...
Oh, how sweet it is November!
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