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Nš 110. THURSDAY, JUNE 27
FUSIONED - DIRECTED - WRITTEN AND
CORRESPONDED BY: MENASSA 2002
DON'T KNOW HOW TO SPEAK BUT WE DO IT IN SEVERAL LANGUAGES
SPANISH, FRENCH, ENGLISH, GERMAN, ARABIAN,
PORTUGUESE, ITALIAN, CATALAN
GRIS, IS A PRODUCT
OF A FUSION
THE BRIGTHENESS OF THE GREY
THE JARAMA INDIAN
THE FUSION WITH MORE FUTURE OF THE
GO, ALL TOGETHER,
OR WE'LL LOSE
TO MY MOTHERLAND
is well and everything is bad
I won't say, as it was said long ago:
a strong wind has destroyed our reasoning
and I won't say:
have taken away the last love in their snowed bosom.
land is decaying in the winged rumour of my song,
the rumour of an endless tempest,
a hurricane that rather than announcing future,
makes us mercilessly recall the past.
the words which I peel alive
the ones belonging to your skin.
Fragrance of lemon among the figs,
of love among the vines.
Slash of honey, your opened sex,
green and natural.
face you at the bottom of your empty gaze,
-sarcastic labourer of the pasture-
open your skin
and on some bleeding wound of your face,
a quick and secure way, among your veins,
I let my words fall, mortal poison,
disproportionate screams over your flesh.
am a man who will for sure die in his gallivanting.
of perfumes, woman always seizes me with fear.
Any day, as it used to happen to me as a young man,
I will write a poem, I will turn on the light.
Suns, shooting stars and majestic suns,
so that your skin breaks into pieces.
Green and natural prairie,
Quartered eye of Latin America,
frozen pasture in the middle of spring,
under the sun, exactly under the sun,
light-blue and white flag of my little dead motherland,
over my eyes, in pieces of sun, your body resuscitates.
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