FRONT VIEW
I saw front view, consciously, what would happen
But I didn’t move a finger. I was stock-still, unwilling,
Facing a hereafter that no longer suited me.
I’m not stone-made or fond of current times,
Nor do I want to rewrite history.
I breathe, work, study, write and concentrate.
I don’t smoke or drink, nor am I happy.
I seem to be surveying … but with an abrupt movement
If only I could remove the evils of the Third World,
Where children work and bad governments are ruling.
Like a garden with grass, — with rubbish dirtying the floor—,
Forgotten by humanity, on a bitter sunset
Of austere solitude, dust is piling up
In the lost silences of childhood.
NAKED LANDSCAPE
The word takes over the naked landscape
Building solitary meaningless portrayals.
Poems don’t have assonant rhyme, slashed
Like a bank cheque. Useless to write down
Beautiful terms to describe something non-existent.
Short stories get me bored, love novels get me down.
Tirant12 passed away in bed not in fight, being loved.
I leave the pen beyond. Paper cries in the drawer.
Chocolate gets easily melted in my hands,
My heart is burning morning to evening.
I’m seeking for an everlasting hallmark.
I’m confused, a thorough maze.
Writing does not fulfil my fate.
The key to my fright is not a poem.
12. Tirant lo Blanch, a famous knight in Catalan literature.
ENDLESS SMELLS
Now and forever human silences were broken
Anchored in everlasting evocations.
Waters splashed purities in immense waves of night,
As redolence with endless smells.
We were robbed of a time without a future.
We slept without thinking for long times.
Dreams with bad memories are not worth.
We made badges of noble sacrifices.
We revived the greatest ancestral languages
Dark mists had faded into eyelids.
Castaway mourners drag too many reminecences.
Winter already became a warm fragrance.
Time is no longer a sad remembrance.
As we keep in mind everything we want
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