THE POET

It is a strange being, just talking, going through your hand and feel as if a ghost were crossing in front of you. Just talk to the kiosquero to ask the newspaper. Just talk to the waiter to ask for coffee. If for some reason have to wait more than necessary at the kiosk or in the bar, he gets nervous and starts looking around uncertainly. Because in fact what is fleeing from contact with others. Only you found safe in his ivory tower. Covered by the books that accompany so many hours. And he prefers to be accompanied by books because much disbelieve in people does. Disappointments of life have become reclusive and misogynist. Love one day he had in his honey but now has left a bitter taste bitter orange that runs through the stomach every time you remember it.

So writes poetry. So he is a poet. Because of the experience of life and you have doses of pain to write about. And it is not that poetry has to be painful to be understandable. But gone are those first poems in referring to the beloved, those first poems were a hymn to the joy of living. It was the life that will fit most precious. And now everything is already secondary. For that to love someone if we know of it we have to separate! Why write if you believe that life is so fragile? Because it's what helps you endure.

 For it is in these verses that will be lost in a drawer where the feeling becomes immortal. Because in essence it is bold. Although his black and pale figure is closer to thinking that the crossing with him we came across a dead, he is bold. And with every verse that starts a girón writes skin to life. And every word is constructed hammer and chisel. And so will the poet for ever and ever, by the verses of the poems, by the words of the verse. Fragile, like a ghost, it freezes your skin to bump into him. The mirror reflection is warm and subtle. It seems that the breath of life out of his hands between breaths sighing to the sky. The poet much I miss eat in this world by roaming his face does. It belongs more to the realm of darkness, a spectrum, the appearance of a shadow. The poet has no pulse. Rivers running through his veins wilted sand clocks. In walking through this world which leads Atlantean tiles. So the poet walks slowly. Slow. And when you say goodbye to this world, we all have to carry on our backs a little bit of the essence of the poet.

Pedro Sanchez