Ahead

I said that I wouldn't say it, and I have said it.

I thought I wouldn't think, but I think about it.

I felt I wouldn't feel it, and now I am feeling it.

Down with all the sketches,

The frames became endless

And the picture has taken a new dimension.

We are sick

One more time, crimson carnation petals fall to the ground, adorning the way to vengefulness and hatred.

Here comes the maroon thundercloud: the turmoil revives, the explosions resurrect.

It resurrects, it revives, that waxen face which stole my breath away.

It revives, it comes back, that glacial, remorseless stare that chilled me to the marrow.

That paralysing dread, that perturbing stench.

Why is there so much morbid fascination and repulsion with death?

They are not bleeding, they are not dying just for your attention. But we keep on looking, with that morbid, repulsive expression drawn on our faces.

And what will my death be like? Will those shameless eyes stare avidly at my decomposed body once they took me out of the river? Will they dare to keep their eyes on my crushed head on the road?

How much violence do we have to confront? 

Why can't I prevent myself from looking at these dead bodies?

How long will this grief last vivid on my memory?

How many distressing nights will those wraiths visit me?

How can I get rid of these corrosive acids so they don't make me feel sick anymore, this metallic taste so it ceases to choke me, these desolated tears, these faithless prayers, this anguish meant to be my uncertain life?

Jamea

Ilargia was innocent. Wounded by the whip of reality, she used to spread white lead on her skin every early morning. Thereby her visage would preserve its moonbeam in the dead of night.

She illuminated the whole world, although she was all alone. She would dedicate long hours to each and every one, surrounded by music that would disguise the void in which she was floating.

One day, Ilargia realised that time had not passed at all: time had been paused throughout her whole brief life, and had just commenced that very day when she met Eguzkia. He came as a dulset, mellifluous voice, an inescapably captivating melody, in harmony with her tiny being.

The feeling was reciprocal. They ascertained how similar they were, how immaculately they fit. Eguzkia shone on Ilargia for the first time, and his sunbeams turned her paleness into inexperienced, gilded blush.

Such was the magnetism between them that their spins changed.

Such was the immediate feeling that struck them both, they forgot the rest of the universe around them.

Such was the chimera of meeting each other that they didn't perceive how they overcame the insurmountable distance that stood between them, within a time interval that did not take up any space in their memory from the moment they found themselves face to face.

Ilargia prayed for forgiveness, pleading for God's blessings on this love.

Silvery tears. Finally, the golden kiss.

الجذر

Once upon a turbid heart, throbbing beneath the morning dew, a seed of hope metamorphosed into an azure goddess. Her gaze sparkled with deep-rooted faith. Her raven tresses worn in an endless plait. Her spine, an apricot blossom garland.

And there she slumbered.

The heart was surrounded by a flowing substance, the soul.
The goddess pierced the heart's lining with her hands; she sank her nails into the soul, her fingers clung to it and put down roots.

The soul diminished: it lost its spark, its valour, its will to fly.

The apricot blossom withered when the soul faded away. And it started to soak up the goddess's pernicious dreams.

The heart remained mute, paralysed.

The goddess was a dormant volcano, writhing in her dreams, awaiting the awakening.

I wonder when it will come. Whether it will come.

Piyo

Invoked memories. The salty bitterness. The disloyal kiss.

Going back is going wrong.

Now I see again. I recall that feeling. When bad days don't seem to end. Instead they ramify.

And the piercing, biting sorrow lies beneath.

Someday the smoke that your mouth gives off will cease to blur my bewildered dreams.

Surya

Humo…

Se escapa,

Etéreo

Se expande,

Tenue

Se eleva,

Liviano

Humo...

Se tuerce,

Feroz

Se impregna,

Espeso

Se muere,

Salvaje

Enciéndeme...

Quémame

Abrásame

Calcíname

Y exhálame

It seems like...

You became so accustomed

to having always been spoonfed

that today you do not appreciate,

nor therefore deserve,

what is given to you.

The question I always wanted to ask you was:

Have you ever struggled hard for anything in your life?

I am so relieved
that it did not go
any further with you.

And it will go nowhere,

I am absolutely certain.

Because that bond you talked about...

It never existed.

But, after all,

I still can look at myself in the mirror.

If you do not like

what stands before you,

I will not change it.

I will keep looking for something

which is worth fighting for in life.