I speak a lot to myself.
I sing aloud because the verses come to my tongue easily.
When my keyboard is far, I strike my fingers in delight. I hop a little.
I like my bread soft and brown; I write verses on any white paper.
While the Judge dictates and quotes.
I travel on a short sojourn riddled with
The paintings of artists, songs of bards.
I could be anywhere, Sweden, France
but I am here sticky streets and flaming paths.
I talk about the melancholia of life to anyone close to listen.
Of the indifference of cowards and the fear of the brave.
If I write to myself, I speak to an infinite audience.
But how can I write if I won’t weep?
When I walk, I listen to the tremble of the elements.
The stirrings of prophecies to come.
I have a soft tongue and fiery intentions.
To be the poet whose muse is not only pain.
So in the tunnel of silence, I break, create and create.
Today I paused to count the notebooks I have kept for years.
A proof that I live.
Fear is boring and other stories I whisper at night.
No one explains how great you are.