Poeta neurasténico [English translation]

Your skin is the region where old indescribable farmers harvested the substance of the purest sensual love.

The peace of your look is the funeral prayer that protects our souls from the perpetual misunderstanding of which cannot scape neither the most accurate words that we can find when we want to express what we feel.

Your voice is the harmony that modulates with its lasting charm the perfect agreement of life with time, which is governed by the beat of your walking, which is like a pendulum that rocks the swingings of the suspended hours in the tireless magic of the convulsive whirlwind in which I dance madly since I met you.

Your mind is the hideout in which live the liberated ideas from the hustle and bustle of successive exchanges in already past debates and symposiums, where were refuted the turbulent principles that backed them.

Your spirit is the essence that beats in the eternal transformation that wraps all the energy of the life underneath the dusty corners of the store in which I keep the pieces of the furnitures that could resist heroically our yesterday quarrel.

Your hands are the pulses of the beat in which passes the existance, blessed by the Holy Providence that was placed before me the morning when I took you out of the mud of the brook where you were splashing.

Your eyes are three doors that each of them lead to the Eternal Fire of the breath of a dragon chained to a bed leg at the bachelor flat of a corrupt diplomat.

Your face is the immeasurable mirror that calms and distributes with peaceful parity all the lights refracted on the callus that are made in the cracked scabs of your skin because of that trashy make-up with which you plaster on.

Your lips are a bridge between the light and the frightening darkness, which I drag in my caothic wandering through a desert in which crowd around the ghosts of outdated mirages, turned into threads of an immaterial cloth where is hidden on every point of its effervescent weave a thought living on it since those long nights we spent, trying together to open that attached file in which came the serial number missing in the pirate CD that we bought with all the desires, the illusion and the hopes of playing Super Mario.