Smiling is your light
as embarrassed face,
a song rises on the horizon
sand on your feet;
south: southern
north: Lights.
A gold medallion in the middle,
blood wings to fly
as your flight begins
to radiate the shadows disperse
until you re-hide.
passengers life
old
pay you homage corn
and I just want you to see the rebirth.
I am a slut
pint sitting in the green lime your body
with lame pick your mouth
mouth and your love.
I am, I am.
I am a slut pinta
posando en un verde limón,
con el pico cojo la rama
y con la rama tu corazón.
Hoy cogí vuelo
hacia San Juan
hace rin, hace ran
traigo maderos
para calentar.
Vengo, vengo, vengo.
Soy una pájara pinta
arribando en an old lemon
to take your hand peak
and your hand a passion expires. Today
flying south.
takes me, takes me, takes me.
I am a slut paints
visiting a lemon dead
to pick up a flower spike
and with flower my only love.
Constant, constant, constant.
What is this mania funeral live?
What is this laughter vacilona to live?
call me day
remind me of the night,
wings open for all to see
this slut looks
always been in love with you.
forking, trifurca, cuatrifurcan ...
but in the end the same.
A miserable room
and a pale body that does not heal,
blood liquid waves aimlessly
between my teeth as a caries malignant
the sun on my body makes me delirious,
'm not feeling ...
Who dared to draw me
lying for the rest of my life?
A slight panning:
the blue blanket,
a figure still,
a purple iris.
Business as usual.
The reaper rebels
to my sobs,
I've been accumulating
in grandmother's music box,
gave him rope and left them out,
but she and
statue holds my hourglass
that seems never ending.
But today that picture destroyed
old unknown author,
today snatched from his hands
my watch,
me today redundancy
food drops,
blue mantle,
and again I say hello
the purple iris,
today I will deal with that smell pharmacist
and let myself go,
forcing the rebel.
She is the voice of Scheherazade
in my nights of dreaming,
are turquoise blue and the wind
Aristimuño.
She is: women
Almodóvar
is the "Memory of poetry"
Jorge Dávila Vásquez.
and mine,
theirs and ours.
is the voice of the wind in the summer,
the voice of rain in the winter,
is walking of passers
and every glance found elusive.
is the voice of Carmen Paris
in "Body sad,"
is the aroma of each body sordid Bukowski
mixed with
of "The Flowers of Evil" by Baudelaire.
and mine,
theirs and ours.
She is the memory
in the last century,
is perfection
the golden number.
in my solitude,
she is my noise
and my calm.
She is my voice
and yours,
theirs and ours.
every breath is
aspiring to get there.
