and that made me feel good. Learned to escape the world and its pain, learning to show that he wanted to be normal.
While still a child ...
childhood dreams.
Last night I saw a star in the universe
down,
and both came to me like
I went to see it.
So close I approached
I could see what it was:
wax was an archangel
a color like honey.
Angelito, angel,
at the wrong time you come down,
The man is obsessed ...
there are only tears and only cries.
All suffering, all
silent because she can not scream.
will not kill you
not follow the line.
And this dangerous game
continues and does not stop.
uproar continues ...
always sends the powerful.
It was late 1978 when I wanted to introduce a change in his writing. He had been listening to the poetry he wrote was leaving aside the rhyme, which never left at all, but if no longer subject to both the classical canons. And I wanted to try, for the metric, as it sometimes ... I was confused. The fact I had many different identities, wanted to talk about them. And I was struck by the fires continued every summer.
Fire. 3-X-1981
Alert!. Smoke in the forest. Smoke
between a green diapers Mt.
Gallego. It's fire! - Scream.
is fire. The great master of the red cloak
rises threatening.
And born sweeping,
buried and butcher.
That cruel fate of Galicia
threat stormy destruction
The landscape is broken.
left field its expressionism aside,
because it dies.
Galicia lost a son.
She cares.
She bathes.
She saw.
And, now abandoned.
Help me. We can still help.
Water!. Just a cube!.
A heart irrigation arises. Galicia
dies.
His gigantic green mantle
will cease to exist. Galicia
loses its field.
Galicia goes, and I
'm going with it.
I felt important, what I was writing gave me life, but I continue to feel out of touch, the abuse, the faulty leg almost useless ... the same reality sometimes reproached me and I could not answer, I could not stop it.
I took refuge in what he wrote and began to talk about feelings and not reality around me, was what he felt he had to protect him, it seemed as if nobody cares but me ... yes.
Love 11-II-1982
Silence!. Do not talk.
Let us meditate.
To remember our childhood,
forget our ignorance
and love again.
Think!. What have we done?.
What is our truth?.
If we start to walk,
begin to remember.
Now!. Let's talk about our stuff
to know better,
dig our own grave
and find love.
had already begun to think of transmitting, in creating me a world, to give a way ... and that was something that attracted me a lot, but always had to return to reality with pain, loneliness , but nothing changed.
She 26-II-82
Green are your eyes
when soft, glowing in the sun,
become beautiful,
bright
joy in the eyes of the nightingale.
The bird sings the joys
to live,
and greet the altar
of silver rivers
and sources of indigo color.
morning smiles
and shows its delicate color,
his beautiful home,
the water clear,
a tepid rumor glow.
She was the friend, the dream, all around me. She was the nature of life: he was awakened in me a special feeling. She could be my soul. And the poems could be a way to talk to her. It would be difficult escaparse de un mundo que a veces era muy cruel y muy superior a ti, pero ése era un camino y no me gustaría dejarlo a medias: ya me había enseñado a sufrir.
Viviré de mayor 11-III-1982
De mayor viviré de mi sangre
y de mi trabajo, sin espacio
ni silencio que me impidan llegar
a la meta que me llama.
No sé si resucitaré
from the bowels of the night,
but I know that my soul
win freedom seeking
and today, not enough
... because it is free.
shadows will kill with swords
not let you breathe
and skip stones
hinder you look.
A strides
cross the hall of torment
and sleep in the shadows of memory,
childhood bubbles
passing breath,
because motivated by love.
paper are bubbles
who die in the world
and get stuck on the wall of oblivion.
looked like it had gone almost half of life.
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