Il est argentin où espagnol

My most beautiful hiding places are solitary sites where no one goes, and where there are shadows that only come to life when I am the magician.

Those waters: only thirst condensed into tears and pain.

My story rests in my hands and in the hands of those who tattooed them.

Poetry, wasn’t that your triumph over the darkness?

Hurricane & savior, like a prayer from a repentant time; you’ll exist when night does, that shining vision which answers in the mist to a signal of dark helplessness.

And don’t you feel then your bed sinking like the nave of a cathedral crushed by the fall of heaven, and that a thick, heavy water runs over your face till the final judgment? […] Again your heart thrown into the depth of the pool, prisoner once more among the waves closing a dream.