Sometimes the poets
they become very sentimental
and they write on the birds
that they sing in the trees
that they surround their house where you/they live
the rain that falls oblique on
their window or the girls that shine him
their eyes when they kiss them until
the bottom of their hair in the park publics.
The modern poets
they don't take a rose in the lapel
as the romantic poets they took
but they still commit suicide and they exercise
the most incredible occupations
that nobody would think that they have
heart for the poetry
they are public employees
or bank and they dream
with writing the fragrant rose
that they breathe in the garden of their house.

The women can
to move the world
if they are in love
as the men they can
to abdicate to the throne for a love
that millennial invention that is
the love can move mountains
or to change the course of the history
but like a drug also
it is dangerous because can
to unchain a suicide
a war or a crime
from the old treaties
it is said that doesn't have age
or that it is blind as the statue
of the justice but believe a world
wonderful among a man
and a woman that we are capable
until of dying for love like
in the old medieval histories
but already nobody dies for love
in these times in that us
we kill ourselves
perhaps for the lack of love to themselves.

I think you every morning
every afternoon and every night
I think you of all the
beings and the things
in the breakfast in the lunch
in the dinner and in the coffee
and the daily cigarette
I think you gets undressed I think
dressed I think you sleeping
with the loose hair with the lips
red and your grown dark eyes
I think you among my lips
among my arms among my chest
among my hands among my thighs
among my open body as your
heart that loves me every morning
every afternoon and every night that me
loves in all the beings
and the things, in the breakfast
in the lunch in the dinner
and in the coffee and the daily cigarette.

The walled city
in front of the sea
of gulls, pelicans
and pelicans
the surf brings a rumor
of pirates and gunshots
of old centuries
and have more than enough their green and blue horizon
small canoes lie
of fishermen
and load ships navigate
and white ships
that they cross the ocean
until the other bank of the world
while with my wife we walk
for their paved streets
next to their balconies
fields of beautiful flowers
and under the light amarrilla of their streetlights
that in the night has one
romantic atmosphere
for the gallop of the horses
of the drivers.
The old city
as old this love
that is renewed
when I enjoy their sea
and I walk their streets
with my new love.

The flower of the Bamboo
The fall of the Carnation
The flower of the Sallow
The Maiden's retinue
The dance of the Doves
The flight of the Butterfly
The kiss of the Tiger
The dance of the Wolf
The Growing moon
The Fleeting star
The flight of the Bee
The dance of the Scorpio
The dessert of Fruits
The hug of the Boa
The union of the Antelope
The dance of the Crab
The posture of the Orchid
in all those positions
that it recommends us
the Kamasutra
to make love
I want to love you in the
it dances of the lovers.

TO WRITE A POEM

The Koguis of Lost City
The Yanomamis of the High Orinoco
The Yukos of the Serrania of the Perija
The Shuars, reducidores of heads,
of the Ecuador
The Wayùu of the Peasant's desert
The Chicanos in the head of the river
Chuchivero in the Amazons
The Warao in the Delta of the Orinoco
The Yaruro in the plains of it Hurries
The U`was in the Sierra Nevada
of the Cocuy
The Quechua ones in the Peruvian Andes
The Naskapis in the Farmer's Peninsula
in Québec
The Kunas in the Atlantic coast
of the Gulf of the Darièn
that old world of magic and rites
and that he/she still survives us
in the most inhospitable places
of the earth mother
as a challenge to the civilization
exotic and savage as the screams
and drums of the forest in África.

To write a poem
it is not sometimes enough
your voice or your eyes
it is not enough your look
neither your lips neither your hair
spilled on the pillow
to write a poem
it is not sometimes enough
to have you under my chest
neither to walk of the hand
and to caress you with the words
daily with those that sometimes
we also practice the love.
To write a poem
it is not sometimes enough
your open heart
as your thighs when
I dream you but the freedom
of your body to write
the poetry that my hand
he/she writes while I love you.