My best friends are distant,
they are invisible.
They have disappeared.
Therefore, I am also gone.
A wall divides us.
I remove the curtains and find a flower blossoming from a stone.
The stone rolls on and creates another flower.
The flower is yellow,
color mixed by a shadow and a little bit of sun.
The sun shines upon a field of flowers.
I pick one of the flowers and give it to you,
like a hidden message of love.
In life, you get used to everything, even to torture.
In combat, the soldiers who are ahead, serve as a guidance to those who are behind.
All men are equal, in primitive state.
Discrimination is the easiest way to organize a society.
People who love each other read the same books.
Some people don’t know how to love.
If I knew that I would dream about you for the rest of my life, I would never have left you.
Writing is a world on its own.
When somebody is telling you a story, never forget that discourse legitimates action.
Just like for every sunlight there is a shadow, for every ‘yes’ there is a ‘no’, the flip side of the coin.
We live in the age of loneliness,
Writing is the future,
All writers have a don Quixote in themselves,
take Karl Marx.
We should write a book:
Tango, a history of seduction.
People laugh at pain….the tango goes…..how stupid…..if we all go through the same.
There is no plot, discourse circulates.
I love to be discriminated. It means they don’t know me.
We hold conversations,
We agree, we disagree,
We emerge from suffering
We share a table
We look at the sky
We look at the mountains
We recall old stories
We create new ones
We plant a garden
We plant a rose
We close the door
We fall asleep
But no one uses the power of his words upon anybody
The end of the book.
We look at the landscape
We keep walking
We drink some wine
We drink some whisky
We meditate about the history of wine and about the history of whisky
We close our eyes
Another book, another story,
We hold the cross
And we are out of this bar.
Only poetry can touch certain souls
They seek each other
They understand each other
And they provide an asylum
For people who don’t have an asylum.
Only the soul souls back and forth
In an endless conversation
Like a tunnel of love.
I love to be discriminated,
It means they don’t know me.
The roads in Serbia are mysterious
The roads in Macedonia are mysterious
The more mysterious the road, the more careful the driver must be
The more mysterious the woman, the more careful the lover must be
Let there not be any more judge than the voice of your conscience
Let there not be any more guidance than the beating of your heart
Let there not be any more voices than the song of your soul
Let there not be any more clock than the time marked by your loved ones
Let there not be any more buildings than the ones built with love
Let there not be any more dance than the dance of our land
Let there not be any more stars than the shine of your eyes
All Argentines dance tango?
I think that unconsciously they all do.