flying up and flying down
sea birds arose the sky
some of them como to the ground
like poor pigeons without faith
they look for food in the greenish grass
the flood goes fast and in a silent mood
boats go by as I pass the river
they meet freedom in the oceans
I drive to meet my poor substance
starting each morning without your smile
pouring my words in a floating basket
to reach yours in the stream of ashes
poetry being my flying eagle
loving you my stubberness, my idle star
with no hope nor faith
I silently caress in this sort of jail
my enclosure of distress around your name...
