Culture grips me.

Will I have to see my landscapes

in the mass media

and to feel the caresses of the

slot machines?


I look for the animal that lies

under this heavy

encephalic mass,

I track its movements and its

noises and I go after

its blind impulses.


I feel under my nose millions

of years of evolution

seeing its work as unfinished

playing its film

by the screen of my



I climb the golden cherry trees

of dusk

to see the reddest sun

getting sweet before the

amber’s night

swallows it

and I sniff like a mastiff

the aromas of the black

that crosses  in silence

the shadow.


I feel under my skin

like in the chilaba of  an

arab fedayeen

your sand’s body

that reveals in the distance its

oasis where the water

runs forever.


And in the mist of your

look I feel the waterfall

of your hair and the

whirlwind of your smile and

the breath

that gently rocks the wild

mountain oats.


Ah, mother nature,

take my pen and write

by my hand what arises

from your hot heart that

beats like a star

in the very center of the

galaxies and crosses like

a solar wind

our lives!


Wound, if you want,

our hearts with the deep

kiss of your will

and shine in our looks

like living stars

of men’s sky!




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