In the silence, the world can lightening in your eyes!

 I like the silence, which gives the impression that an end is burying me. I like the flat areas of my wanderings, where I encounter the veracity of what exists so that the sensitive fiber of the poet remains in my mind, to whom the words deliver the quintessence of their meaning and their essence so that the words full of incandescence which instructs and builds this humanity in disuse which these harmful progresses weave.

I sow loneliness, not with promptitude, but above all with solicitude, like a beggar hoping for alms from Providence so that I may be inseminated by the magic of luminous words, which light up the darkness of the present times, where the triumph triviality blossoms to water the impertinence of stupidity as a value to conquer and establish while, from the passivity it infuses, criticism sinks to engender only the cerebral death put, in preview, on the buzz tripod.

I smile with sadness in front of the perfidy dyed in the sun of kindness, to reserve my tears for the joys that come from the holy efforts and the frankness of limpid souls, who know how to live in sincerity each relationship they establish. I do not feed on the opprobrium that some have taken to covering up the so-called and pretended people they know to feel existent, to delight in their role as self-appointed biographer and specialist to deny the claims of each other in their skills, as if they had a monopoly on truthfulness in the art of speaking and writing poetic words. As if they are worth the unit of measurement of any lyrical and epistemic relevance that any sentence in poetry can carry.