Andar.
Mi andar se
ha transformado en un susurro
recorriendo
la orilla fantástica de esas enormes
cavernas
que rodean nuestra geografías
roturadas
por las maquinas infernales,
suave y con
tacto desciendo sus profundidades
para
encontrarme con fabulosos animales
que bullen
mis noches de sueños,
animales
poderosos de colores insólitos,
apacentando
entre flores que exudan pigmentos
peregrinos
tiñendo la vastedad del firmamento.
Mi andar se
pierde en medio de la pasividad
de las aves
bebiendo la savia de la estrellas
furtivas,
se desvían entre los suspiros
de nubes
holgazanas, o a través de otras huellas
de esos
viajeros ignotos recorriendo
los
antiguos caminos de los sabios.
Mi andar se
pierde en estrofas de una poesía
perdida,
desdibujada en mi memoria vapuleada,
se pierde
en la línea que une mi corazón
y el
firmamento lleno de preguntas.
Walk.
My walk has become a whisper
touring the fantastic edge of these huge
caverns surrounding our geographies
plowed by the infernal machines,
soft and tact descend the depths
to meet fabulous animals
seething my nights of dreams,
powerful animals with unusual colors,
pasturing among flowers exuding estrange
My walk has become a whisper
touring the fantastic edge of these huge
caverns surrounding our geographies
plowed by the infernal machines,
soft and tact descend the depths
to meet fabulous animals
seething my nights of dreams,
powerful animals with unusual colors,
pasturing among flowers exuding estrange
pigments tinting the vastness of the sky.
My walk is lost in the middle of passivity
of the birds drinking the sap of the furtive
My walk is lost in the middle of passivity
of the birds drinking the sap of the furtive
stars, they deviate from the sighs
of lazy clouds, or through other tracks
of those travelers touring the unknown
old ways of the wise.
My walk is lost in stanzas of loss poetry,
blurred in my memory battered,
It is lost in the line joining my heart
and the firmament full of questions.
of lazy clouds, or through other tracks
of those travelers touring the unknown
old ways of the wise.
My walk is lost in stanzas of loss poetry,
blurred in my memory battered,
It is lost in the line joining my heart
and the firmament full of questions.
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