When nothing is expected personally exalting, but it pulsates and it follows more here of the conscience, fiercely existing, blindly affirming, like a pulse that strikes the darkness,
When you look straight ahead into the dizzying clear eyes of death, the truths are told: the barbarous, terrible, loving cruelties:
that widen the lungs of those, asphyxiated, ask to be, ask for rhythm, and ask for law for that which they feel excessive.
With the speed of instinct, the ray of prodigy, and as magic evidence, the real becomes us in the identical with itself.
Poetry for the poor, necessary poetry as the daily bread ,
like the air that we demand thirteen times a minute,
to be and while we are giving a yes that glorifies.
Because we live to blows, because they hardly let us say that we are who we are, in our songs can not be sinless an ornament.
And we are touching the bottom.
I curse poetry conceived as a cultural luxury by neutrals who, washing their hands, disengage and evade.
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I make faults mine.
I sing, and sing, and sing beyond my personal pains, I grow.
I would like to give you life , to provoke new acts,
and I calculate for that with technique, what I can.
I feel like an engineer of the verse and a worker who works with others in Spain in their steels. >
Such is my poetry: Poetry-tool
at the same time as the beat of the unanimous and blind.
Such is, loaded with an expansive future with which I point you to the chest .
It is not a thoughtful drop-by-drop poetry. It is not a beautiful product. It is not a perfect fruit.
It is something like the air we all breathe and it is the song that spreads all that we carry inside.
They are the most necessary: What has no name.
They are cries in heaven, and on earth, they are acts.