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As the droplets off the window on a rainy afternoon, my thoughts fall.
Learning to be alone in silence the beauty of our own existence.
absent from the environment, immersed in our own cocoon.
Today I am free, of presences, absences, physical company and affection. Today, now ... I'm a point that expands on an infinite canvas, and stained with the blood of an artist brushes imaginary. Miro
my hands are small abstractions that explode with a deafening sound that explode and become huge ... and now no one can reach to take them.
caress my feet, I see similar, identical ... But to what? I can not find out. I find incredibly identical to what? What? ... Yes, my footsteps. It also once I looked back and the lights blinded me from the past.
My body changes shape: I am a butterfly, is a flower, a cloud, an outbreak of light sneaks through the thick night ... shape changes and notices at a glance ... only someone will see the metamorphosis of the butterfly. Because when the sun sets, the moon is more selective and does not embellish them all with its charm.
But all this mess is for the dawn. Now I'm painting on my body, the breeze. The paint on the sea and I can feel my limbs are covered with goosebumps, and blush slowly.
hear the whispers of the waves, bring me names, and I remember ... And I whisper, the sea whispers to me, and together we formed a poem that harmoniously combines silence.
I lie with my mind on earth, and let my heart be nourished with the soil. I let my arms spread, escape from my hands. So I feel the heartbeat of the earth, and those below her comfortable rest. So I'm primitive, animal instinct to coordinate with my body as the only way to live. So sorry, no more. Nude body and soul, I have no penalties that I darken, or voices to shout destroying my peace.
I just find a pair of purple eyes, as Butterfly, and which managed to fly with my wings.

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This sadness that has no root, shadow or echo in the mountains, words are born. Stubborn, deaf, dumb ... loving feelings are superfluous suffering. Today I am sad, yes ... infinite sadness ... those which are not calculated because they seem to be endless ... Of those that start the vertebrae one by one, and use them to make a necklace or a xylophone. Sadness that bleeds, and bleeds slowly ... Sadness has no origin, reason ... perhaps created by the absence beginning to be felt when the leaves of offshore stained sidewalks. Or maybe created by being around people, laughter ... hugs ... and do not have time to find heartbreaking loneliness alone against a cliff. I do not know, just know I'm sad and at times (like now) I feel like sinking my face in her hands white and cold, and lie to mourn inconsolably, as if no time had passed and still be a girl. I also feel like running and hug my grandmother, and curl up in the folds of his Bluz ... and here a small tip root of the problem: it is not, and will not be more, neither she nor her perfume, or color your Bluz or large, soft hands. And now I feel even sadder.
And I mourn, I untie the knots I made in my throat, but I do not, because I know it is fleeting ... And that morning when you wake, you may recall with smiles the small state of depression, caused perhaps because a cricket did not sing.
Yes, well, that will be tomorrow. Now is now and I have to solve this bipolarity that cross my feelings. Could it be the uncertainty, the environment and the cowardice, the cause of this? Will the joys of home that have not bloomed this summer? Will the moon last night was naked and full? Will the soap opera that generates my imagination not think that I have no guts to cum, hold you and say I love you just for me?
Today I am sad and I can not calm this sinking sea of \u200b\u200bsmiles in the inexplicable.

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... "The poem that I say, do not deserve. Fear of being two way mirror, someone in my sleep, I eat and drink me '...

Pizarnik, "Tree of Diana"

It is impossible (at this stage of the game, life, and so into the night) to deny you've taken possession of much of me. I write without thinking and your face ... closing his eyes, blurring my vision, I see it drawn perfectly in the back of my eyes, over the ears, temple, forehead and above the scalp. Arguably, being open and honest in the habit of writing and because externalize me pleasure to have known that ... because despite knowing the outcome of those words, I find this story as fascinating as your smile. And they (the words) are piled up in my mouth wanting to come to light, and I feel an irresistible arcade and a desire vomiting my metaphors that go beyond tolerance and human endurance. I get out of bed to cure my disease (of poets and madmen ... of madmen poets and mine ... damn poet des-balanced dissemination!) And the tip about the role imagination and technological . What crime have you, the readers and fellow blessed poems, that the rainbow is brighter these days?, What fault is that today moon type nonsense, and who has lost (in fact) reasoning from I met him?. I think both answers are: None. But there is no choice: kill the love or die trying to be happy.

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How cool are their bodies. What are their voices silenced. That freezes your smile ... How far are their remains? Under what moon were tortured? Who smelled her burning flesh, pink ... ? Who saw their faces beaten? Who paid attention to her eyes sad and scared? Who heard their cries? What God answered his prayers? Who heard her sobbing? The

missing.

many motherfuckers murdered their ideas. How often dipped their heads in those stinking toilets, to get phone numbers and addresses to continue to destroy lives? How many damn cavemen believed that silenced an entire people? How many times per minute, mothers reproach the god of those who believe the life of your child?

The missing ...

-

For them.

For those who are no ...

For those who were censored for life.

For the 30,000 who disappeared during the military dictatorship.

By Jorge Julio Lopez vanished in the middle of "democracy"
For the children of this age, they deserve a better country.

For our children to come in the morning.

For the sunsets they could not see.

For the smiles that could not give.

For the words that could not scream.

For ourselves ... Not to be blemishes or a piece of mold on the wall.

To lead by example.

order to learn from history.

To avoid tripping over the same stone ...

not allow ourselves to operate as a puppet show.

to be thinking beings.

We have thousands of reasons to wake up ... For revival of this general political indifference and start acting with a conscience. Revive the 30,001 missing in our actions ... that forgetting does not win in our memory. That those who govern us know NOT FORGET.

Mothers, mothers of pain ... In memory of their children.

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One more, just one. Daal ...

I like that I let life upside down. They pull all the books on my shelf and I was obliged to order otherwise, without rules without a model. I like to face life with a smile, planning the day and wanting to see the sun.

not want to think you love me, and yet not able to do otherwise. I love ... Knowing that I own my actions and my own, and yet find that I'm losing a monopoly on my conscience because of what little they hold your name.

Feeling crazy and yet so rope. Feel free and dam of my own body. Feeling sorry, no more.

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appears when you least expect.
warm feelings at the sight. As an eternal spring, as a bitter mate under a weeping willow that surrounds us ... like life.
Gradually permeates me. woke up one morning with her scent on my skin and my hands still feel the soft scratches on his back.
I keep in my fist thousands of strokes made and done, thousands of words rioting that someday will be poems and some dreams which are to shine ...

Do not be afraid solves the time that men can not.
Let him decide what we do not know ... do you know if the wake under the foot of a mountain, together ... Or if you sleep in separate sunsets in the next flood.


Now I stare.
Your smile melts the raindrops, and becomes small bright patches that might be detached from the dress of a great lady of the night. Or maybe you are just a Limíade dust that was left sad and overwhelmed by the last beat boredom.
But I look at all time.
Your laughter is the perfect proof that men need to know that we are alive. Your laughter is the magic that need my hands to write forever.

Your laughter ...

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Someone once asked me why I wrote. And I said, "To live." He thought for a moment and then said "what you write?". I looked into his eyes (to make sure my reply to reach destination) and confessed: "I write odes to the smiles, the wonderful mental stage that is love's lost children never to things ordinary and routine that make me sigh, small details, the butterflies, the roses without thorns and the moon. "
Satisfied with my answer, I hugged and kissed my forehead and left.

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There something that is special.

I can spend a whole day and do not hold, kiss you ... I can not spend a whole night and we may not go to sleep together ... Not because it deserves it: the sky and the moon know that we are beyond all men and women, but because it is paramount. There something that makes you different, that would give me the pattern that's you, among millions of identical beings.

I can tell you everything you want and may not want anything. But still, even knowing perhaps pilgrims traveling ever between hugs and never seek a nest aground, you have advantage.

I can look at you and know more than you think. In your smile is something shining more than most stars.

is that, that something. That uncertainty puzzles me, this mystery that you know, but maybe even to my critical eye is no exception.

enjoy your huge smile, love of life. I enjoy listening to you say that things do not mix. Enjoy your happiness because you do contagious ... Because today writing this, and is one of the saddest days of the year and gray ... and yet I am smiling.

Because no matter that things are given in a strange way, after many disagreements, after hours and hours of escape from the uncertainty and fear of failure ... You're special and that is a great virtue, worthy of these words and more.

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land

feel beat. I put my hands on your skin and I can feel a constant tingle. My hands are shaking, knees, feet ... an effervescence sneaks through the cracks: Rampage, like a volcano about to explode, young voices, shake hands, strong and decisive steps. Hard

I cling to the ground ... I unfold my wings, I look around ... Here they are, the usual suspects, the ideals of the skin and deep in the head, we want to change this world that is rotten, that we close our eyes and upstream, and if we ever fall back raise (because that is). I look and look at me. They also know that something is going to explode ... laugh with sarcasm, are complicit of this revolt of the Nobodies.

We have no name or surname. We have no face. We have no body.

We have thousands of names with thousands of names, millions of faces with different bodies. We Pocho Lepratti, we Darío Santillán, we Maxi Kosteki, are Mother Teresa, are the father Mugica ... We are starving children, mothers who sacrifice their lives for the lives of their children.

We are the sum of all forces, all the courage ...

are complicit in this that is about to explode, because it must. Springs from the heart of a land hurt by inequality, arises from the combustion of anger ... Born with patience little movement Lepratti Pocho

Maria Belen

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Shouts

deaf, mute caresses: moments of reflection.

time I mowed the back reminding me that kills idealism lovers kissing each other without being able to touch.

is not the time to conjure up the ghosts of old times. It is not me it was not yours.

You do not know who you want I sleep in your arms and give kisses warlocks who do not have names on the skin. Vos not settle. Today you are surprised by what the moon always critical, this conformism emetic, cowardly ... only that disguise lies with metaphors of alignment.

And I walked away. Your cannibals debora

your own bones. Eat your words, your ideal ... you have no shadow because you're a big lie. Your reflection is just a blue light in the distance ... and I am happy to be so far to not see your self-destruction. I doomed to mediocrity and that is not ever leaving.

sea revealed to my truth, I stripped to his anger and I felt free. You need to spit spines to forget without rancor, the fish dies by the mouth and the words spoken are not sure of the poet's suicide.

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How far have we come?
hungry cannibals, hatred, anger, bitterness ... greed. Killing for killing, by a river, for oil, for a few coins ... with excuses and no regrets ... We kill because we think we can, because we played in control with neighboring ... because we want more, and ended up being less ... Much less, tens of thousands less ...
How many more lives must we lose men until they understand that violence does not get us anywhere? How many innocent children have to pay for the selfishness of a few? How did we reach us by the most primitive instinct and become murderers? Murderers of lives and dreams. Future murderers.
For what does this girl in the picture that lies dead because of some bombing, with foreign debt, nuclear, oil and terrorism? Children only know of games and fun are the big the damn troglodytes that we tread between us brains.
When will we learn?
This world is rotten from head to toe ... War only leads another war ... and the cessation of violence is becoming more distant.
When will we learn to live in peace?
When will we learn that the first barrier of segregation are the nationalities and borders ... and we are all brothers for the simple fact of being human.
When will we learn to love instead of violence and war?

When?


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Mapuche Child, Part I

Posted July 22, 2008 in Villa La Angostura.
At the Mapuche community, I found the following sign:

Welcome to LOF
Paichil-Antriao
The Mapuche live
fight goes on and
Petu mongueleyin (we're still alive)

Child Mapuche Part I

In your eyes I see the sadness, my child, knowing that this land was irrigated with native blood of your people, tears were shed sisters on these minefields memories. Of which nothing remains today the strong sun that decorates the sky, now there are gates , wire and iron.

Somebody explain to me sir, please, what all those signs, how can any man be master of the lakes, air and soil?.

-

Seeking pastures that were my home, I search but can not find. I find only crumbs of bread or "No Trespassing on this ground." "Private property" in the corner read, "No entry for all others" I have to relist the heart to feel that this is again ours.

Belèn

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hours vanish like stanzas of a song, cigarette butts accumulate in the ashtray and I speak with irony as light a smudge.
laughed a lot, cite quotations and known to us ... we played the trick.
Mates come and go as often as it allows the kettle ... how many turkeys as hours is night.
Amid all this fuss I stop and think and smile: I know I chose the best.
Life is a narrow road, it rises in which it may cost us continue ... and in it we find distances away, discussions, differences ... But behind the rise is the fall, like after the rain is the watchman. And that's the most beautiful in the world. speak with pride of my friends because it led in all the times we live together ...

You have very light, and her give clarity to the darkness that pervades this time. You have a supernatural power that comes from your body, a force capable of revolutionizing all hearts, and if you are able to do that how will not be able to revolutionize the world!. Fights against hunger, against laziness, struggles because you know it's wrong, it's not fair ... Because the differences are that this country is rotten and fall at the lack ... and despite the billions of obstacles do not you surrender.
You have the right word for the right time. Speak only what we can bear, and the rest will be seen below ...
silently hugged me when I needed you, you pressed me so hard and gave me so calm for a moment I felt that I was still stroking my cousin was still beside me. I spoke of that proceeding, which then seemed impossible ... and now I'm here, and I have a moral obligation to thank all the energy you gave me to do so.

Many times we have discussed, you know, I do not want to twist your arm and you're the final decision. But always with respect and showing two different positions ...

- - -

start feeling melancholy you're away, and I miss you so much.
I still have to tell you that I admire very much and I thank the sun to be my friend. I love you with all my heart Shangui.

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I want to break my piggy, I want to travel and fly.
I want to sleep tonight in your arms, I hold you tight and feel trapped in your room blue.
I want my family to be happy.
I want you to end a hunger in my people and we can all sleep on a mattress.
want to die and be born a thousand times in every beat of my motherland.
I want to run barefoot through the wet grass in the morning.
I want to get your eyes and you reach the mine.
I get to the moon with one poetry and melt it. I will go
the sky and see if the god of those who believe there is, and if so ... ask if you are blind to not see so much misery.
I will go to heaven also to hug my cousin and tell him how much I miss him.
I want to tell a story at bedtime, in his eternal sleep and curl up beside him, without anyone stopping me.
I want to kiss your lips warm and sincere.
I keep my lifelong friends because they are the most beautiful.
I want respect for elders as they deserve.
I have many children.
I want us to forget the races and awards and so live as true brothers.
I we make love, not war.
want to be happy.
my heart I always feel love.


You see, I have much to do ... morning I get up at dawn.

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Full my mate.
to the tip to the edge.
A drop more
and would overflow and ruin the moment.
One down, and had felt like a little more.
to the limit,
always risking everything:
to my mate.
always betting the head,
ribs and heart. Putting
full my forehead and waiting for the gun
before losing ideals. Putting
hands
but want to stop the wall:
prefer starting my teeth ... to think what would have been if he had tried .

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Anachronism

The nobodies that from time to time we get someone. The others, we will be yesterday tomorrow ... the free time. The anachronistic.

lights on and the show begins. whispers are heard, old friends ...

Suddenly, the darkness.

The mind turns white as a sheet while the senses become dumb, stupid ... no music, no voices, no people. Only element and acrobat.

Oblivion is present and takes the sorrows, problems and pains that affect us.

not think nothing more than to enjoy the happiness that we produce. The adrenaline that follows us ... dizziness, the emptiness and sometimes the explosion.

A group of lunatics who seek to be happy. The sane from the insane again.

We

above.

Above their heads, holding the ropes. We may head there who think we will end without a head, and others who we have lost ( and repeat them: the group of wise fools!); yet we see that above the rest. Seeking the knowing glances of the people.

Tinmarincorvaenunapierna and are now pointing to the ground with the nose, touching the earth with the tip, about to sneeze.

Looks are applause.

We also embrace his eyes and outline a slight smile, because the satisfaction of feeling the warmth of who enjoys it is worthy of a great joy.

of us who got together to twirl from time to time. We like you, because the bigger the role life, and in our country only survive acrobats and juggling ... in this country .. of the sane mad.

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Oblivion leans to me and is silent. I had no choice but to open the door and beg comfort. Drastic
your method of self-love, silly, cynical, childish. We are no longer
for bull nor sarcasm. Or at least I'm not. Why did you say in silence what could you tell me your ear?

Now is the time to be silent. It is not easy to find words, and born to me, they do so without force and with the wind.

Gone is the train that took us to target, the two. You
dismissal at the station, and I wish you a nice trip. To other arms, other kisses ... to other moons and dawns ...
I embrace you with his eyes because the illusion that I was overwhelmed and inspired this time was the glory of thy name, and today is the sigh of a gull migrates. You
dismissal with nostalgia but smiling. It was time to cut the umbilical cord about me linking to your echo.

climb on the train and walk away. Your shadow will slowly blurring leaving a soft twilight of summer following your steps ... In the following platform
hope mine. I take my backpack and my books, I have to trova and the guerrillas in song, the pen and the sweetness of the kisses that I expect.

is made at night with calm and clarity is becoming sarcastic laugh of the night. All that one day we went, it becomes that no longer make ...

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is time to seek new air. Visiting exotic
roads may lead me to find old memories.
Or not. Focus
life away ...
need to grab my backpack and take flight;
to all or to nowhere.
need to spread my wings and fly
throw me off the ground memories, to live
away from this confusion
eternal.
To live in freedom.

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Silence.
My room is calm and clear ... My fingers tremble when writing, as yesterday, as usual. Today
prefer silence and caution. Learning to think with your head.
From time are, Galeano says, his mouth, his feet.
And although I do not understand the vicious circle of the game, I will not dive into the spiral. I do not think you once again ... at the conclusion of these letters. Dismissal your presence until who knows when.
moon will know if you ever come back ... know the night if my arms will be happy to embrace.
silence and I will know that we were wrong, as often as we bet a new beginning.
prefer playing, and I have a head that bet.

-

D ecid to risk everything, I waited in a bar, and running awkwardly ran to find the shadow of yesterday ... Were the cause and result of my tears recurrent and persistent ... I did mourn. Fully nailed a dagger in my self ... brutally murdered respect Drop I caressed her, and go let me go.
And what fault I have, if I can not forget pride?.
My love, says Silvio, is a sun on for who deserves love ... Do not ever become the shadow of a plain love ... coat my kisses will never be a memory ... Make no mistake that does not manage my time
-

now write to the beat of a song by Ismael, suggesting that he sings one of Silvio ... and the sweet melody firing the wreckage.

Up here I come, sir .. Now wait another ship.