I write from deep corners

where I fall along the day

by the holes of the sun

Ladies carved in salt

with eighteenth shoes**

and gloves rococo*

take my head

and they rotate it completely until exploding

the base of my teeth,

the innocence of my lips

the aquamarine of my eyes.



Seeing the moon among the grilles.

Perceiving the square song of the crickets.

Getting dark the sun,

drumming December with two fingers

stepping with my sole of flesh

the solstice of summer

keeping under my armpits your smile.

Giaconda uncertain of my dusks,

warm lady

of small and hot hands

as alive birds.



If someone reads me

almost of coincidence,

the angels explode

as seeds of sesame,

like heavenly cockroaches

grasped to the flint of the months

united

to the blue icon of your look.



Seeing the moon when the bars fall

and the paths are freed

and the smooth light occupies the place

that was for her since always

and the smooth cats of the dawn

be launched in yellow crowds

"since it embroiders of its white wings

of sister of charity"

Oh my world!



Gocho Bersolari