in the world opens a crack.
And inside the crack extends the pain of non-visible. Walking through it
supposed to take sides. "It will fall thirst, but not the way."
Arrive from afar, reaching the compassion of a mother in the distance see the kids.
Other children (which may be us).
And feel from them how Reality is choking the real, the self, the imagined. How are strengthened and slowly build the shells of the everyday. Understand the day to day as the loss of an eternal paradise, infants of a timeless realm.
"so we children die of grief"
arrived from far away, and dragged us the masks that disguise childhood. And, as fragile and vulnerable beings, laugh and cry.
The poet can not but admire this ruined world that welcomes us, and full of anger, reacting to these poems, "Songs of milk crying."
It's not all frustration and despair. Appears in us-metaphor-language children as a joy, a toy that cradled, appoint hatred, death, tomorrow as a first step toward hope. Inventing
another world, raise other households, other corners.
The embrace and caress the other language which houses the another word that can save us warm.
"and Poetry is born. (...)
the voice of the oppressed emanates from this orgy "
in the place of death
" where the cry
seeks back "
comes a frail little girl, a girl pen.
That meets the finger prints of the other children running,
with his own mark with his memory.
With this "invisible circle " that surrounds and protects.
"air memory."
did it go?
where does this girl anyone?
what was your first word?
crystals, their anxieties,
who the disinherited of their land?
who cut words in the air?
after fear, " fear is dumb and dies word."
And with all these raw charred
poet recognizes his past dowsing
your search ... among the feathers of birds,
the stillness of memories of his home, his hell
stable
"Silence of the objects
and cracks in the walls"
But
known background, the girl
pen, the girl nobody
always in the word,
"rubble"
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