Relatos breves de Victoria Morrison
Dos retratos en dos marcos diferentes, dos fechas de nacimiento, dos nacionalidades, dos identidades. Ella no abraza a los árboles, los besa apasionadamente, la sangre que brota de su boca rota es savia dulce.
Latin American poet
Sueños, Alejandra María González
Onírico Sueño campanarios en éxtasis, sueño tu frente que avanza por lejanas provincias cortando rosales. Sueño tu caballo rindiéndole pleitesía al viento y a ti tomando las riendas con la fuerza del coraje que se instala en tu garganta. Sueño tu espalda reposada de violines para que escuche tus voces con el color de tu …
Amores y Desamores, Claudia Vila Molina
Travesía Seas túel extraviado que regresahacia la nieblade nuestros cuerpos. Catástrofe El amorserá poseídopor los únicos sobrevivientesde esta masacre. Vaticinio Tu cuerpo disuelve las cosaspara anunciar un gemidoo recóndito extremo de la nocheque ya no esconde nadani siquiera una nueva formade estremecimiento. Extrañamiento Me miras como si fuese tu feticheme tocas cuando estamos solosno soy …
The Paleozoic Clock by Enrique de Santiago
With every sun 666 mistakes arise in the belly of the lunar word.
Recipes for Horizons by Enrique De Santiago
Each step collects behind you, the daffodils, that inevitably lose your mark, the one that wanders in the deep sands, that in the empire of shadows shelters you.
Secret of the Air, Enrique De Santiago
you seek to break beyond the fundamental shell, the one that you came to know in a primitive way in the sweet stays of belief.
Victoria Morrison, Seed Wisdom
Am I really here, watching the miracle of my fertile land or is it my mind that imitates to the dying man who escapes from the barren land
and look for the seed to save the world?
Angel of the Paths Claudia Vila Molina
I will open my eyes once more, When the stars dwell in our bodies, And a drop slipped through the skin, Suspend all reefs high.
Be a Poem by Lorena Rioseco-Palacios
I will lose myself as those sleepless, nights are lost. As the swallows fly uncertainly in their freedom. Thus, like the breath drowned in a puddle of muddy tears between slopes whipped by a harsh winter. I’ll get lost on those dead end streets in the midst of a time without stay. Suffering soul
Poems from Crazy Pupils by Victoria Morrison
From afar he looked like a man
It was a shadow in the form of a man
From afar he looked like a poet, It was a form of man, with the voice of a poet, In the light he looked like an angel
In the dark
Repugnant
smelly
I liked
Come! Come my love!