Saturday, September 14, 2013


These months are growing old 
like my hair, my precious silver that 
I do not like to hide,
in front of this computer screen
the world rotates on
its own axis, while mine

frozen in feet
doesn't wear shoes
doesn't move
doesn't dance.

A song in monosyllables

plays into my ears that reminds me
of your language of love,
that spoke only
in signs, symbols and visual vocabulary
those that gave me poetry,
making this keyboard
glow in the death of this night.

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