A keresés eredménye

Looking For Something

Looking for something
Always means finding something else
Therefore, to find something
You have to look for a different thing
 
Looking for a bird to find a rose
Looking for love to find exile
Looking for nothing to find a human being
Going backwards to go forward
 
The key of the road
More than its forks
Its suspicious start
Or its uncertain end
Is the bitter humor
Of its innuendo
You always reach your destination
To somewhere else, instead
 
Everything happens
The other way around, instead
 

Hands deceive us too...

Hands deceive us too.
 
The truth is we have no hands
and that's why we lose everything,
a stone or a life
 
We have no hands
 
And God's ambiguous record
do not reach in any way
to close this floating stump in which we end in
and in which maybe everything ends in
 

Today, I haven't done anything

Today, I haven't done anything,
but several things have been done to me,
non-existent birds,
found their nests.
Shadows that might exist,
found their bodies.
Existing words,
regained their silence.
Not doing a single thing
sometimes saves the world's equilibrium,
this way, making one thing to weigh down
in the empty balance's pan.
 
Just learning.

There are words we don't say...

There are words we don't say,
and without saying, we write them in stuff.
 
And the stuff keeps them
and one day, it answers with them,
and saves our world,
with a secret love
in which two sides,
there's only one entrance.
 
Isn't there a word,
of those we don't say,
that we have put
accidentally, in the middle of nowhere?
 
Just learning.

It's not the same a smile...

It's not the same a smile,
alone,
by night,
locked at home
than this smile of you, or mine
sour already from nothing.
 
And however,
both are bounded,
in two faces
or perhaps two mouths,
in just one face.
 
Just learning.

Found a man writing

I found a man writing in his bones,
and me, who never saw a god before,
I know this man looks like one.
 
There was in his gesture something
equivalent to the norm, or a suicidal's scent,
an abyss, or a silence,
which divides the whole universe in two exact nocturnal parts.
 
He wrote in his bones,
like the sand from a perforated beach, from the top,
with the integrity of an eye,
that locks in himself the thought as well.
 
But I couldn't look over his shoulder,
to see what was he writing,
because he was writing on his soulder as well.
 
Just learning.

We must fall...

We must fall, and we can't determine where,
but there's a wind form in the hair,
certain pause of the blow,
certain corner in the arm,
that we can bend as we fall.
 
It's just the extent of a sign,
the top of a thought without thinking,
but it's enough, to avoid the greedy bottom of a pair of hands,
and the blue misery of a desolated god.
 
It's all about folding more than a comma,
in a text that we can't select.
 
Just learning.

There are dots of silence...

There are dots of silence surrounding the heart
they're the heart itself, but in front of it
lying among its various arrows,
not undone in its own death, but dealing with it.
 
It's not a scripture of silence looking for its eye,
or a God secured outside himself,
or a coward rain,
or a chased dog, by its own bark.
 
The heart is a silent hand,
which fingers are in front of it,
He imitates the beats,
but they can't be seduced.
 
Just learning.

We all are going to die...

We all are going to die,
we all, that have looked at each other, face to face or sideways,
touched, or talked or forgotten.
We will die, one by one, frankly
from this great impossible which is Death.
My dog's color black will die too,
the white of your voice,
this day's empty color.
And meanwhile,
we'll do a thing or another,
not so frankly anymore,
but, why does it matter what we'll do?
perhaps it's all the same,
if my dog had a white color,
if your voice was black,
or if this day stained us of God,
or perhaps it's not all the same,
and there, the question would start again.
 
Just learning.

Sometimes, my hands wake me up...

Sometimes, my hands wake me up,
they do and undo one thing, without me
as I sleep.
Something terribly human,
concrete as the back, or the pocket of a man.
 
I hear them in my dreams
during their outside work,
but while opening my eyes, they are already calm.
Nevertheless,
I've thought, maybe, I am the man
and due to what they do,
with their gesture, not mine
with their god, not mine
with their death, if they die too.
 
I don't know how to make a man,
perhaps my hands do the job as I sleep,
and when it's over,
they will wake me up,
and show it all to me.
 
Just learning.