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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

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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.