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Introduction
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Poet - Philosopher and Hedonist |
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LA MALOCA (Tribal house in the Amazonas jungle}
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I revise,in a typewriter,the hours that I lack for dream | Mit�,right now,is far away Neither charity,neither abandonment are tools in this woods that absorb you lugubriously There is no confort here, not at least in the border of a river whose sands change,moving from copper to black The nature broadcasts it's noise for indicating you what is that surrounds your senses and pursues you with urges of death Your return is not possible, if they get it, and is urgent for you to split, ploughing for another rivers: the bitter pain or the uproar of the party Tonigth it comes the serpent and its singing will charm all the young girls Tomorrowit will not rain and dew will crown with its drops the leafs My eyes will look with despair toward another horizon where it wake up the peace and no feel thrilled ourselves by displeasures but for the lagoon of the lost place Remote cases of strange adventures stir the most profound fibres of the Agora, of the council of the old men. of the lost hucksters that let it past, the opportunity of conquering me without surprises The aged women themselves,sat murmuring between teeth,hundreds of prophecies that are not given to be fullfilled With ease, they are seduced and revives in their heart, the stove of their childhood, in spite of their proper recognition that close by, is their tomb
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