Life, will be always more important that anything that could be written on it….the soul is touched, the mind, crosses forged footpaths of letters… there are; the unfinished poems contained in a hidden annotation, that have not found channel still… The empty verses that prop up to the heart of the lies. Those that sleep in vaporous consolation, in depths, where not yet the ink arrives. My hands… are the perennial cascade of where the verses to the paper fall, I confess; that I do not know yet, what has written through my fingers… perhaps transmisors sparkles, hidden energies of multiple colors, images from the labyrinths of the thought… deep moans, breezes of temporary well-being… not everything found the exit in words, or have been able to last in spilled letters… there were only some messages; if they come from the heavens or they have escaped from the infraworlds… I have only been able to turn them in poems. I conclude; … that the poetry, is the unique one… that could be ventured to count the sand grains in the deserts… to catch the song of the oceans… to satisfy the appetite within the more sensible soul… to distinguish the lights of the dark….the seeds that give new life… to offer… and to find in it the whole… from the opening field of our hands.
The Poetress
