The quill sighed in spasms, spots on white.
Was the ink bleeding, was dying?
Please take off your shoes
when you come to shod feelings,
let's get away from the sins, from daily routine,
of today, of everything...
here the floor is fluid, insipid,
a kind of "no" draped in perceptibility.
This week has almost all seven days Tuesdays, yesterday was tuesday, tomorrow is tuesday,
tuesday was tuesday, just today, today is not tuesday,
today is nothing mundane, today is fado,
with all the feelings painted on hearing.... what nostalgia!
A handful of nails, a bunch of poppies,
a nocturnal romance...
A gypsy guessing in an imaginary palm of a one-armed man, does it say good, about money, luck, or love?
The sun suddenly sets, as if in a hurry to catch the last
it was the blazing sun corrigendum.
The perception of the outlaws is ignored today,
today is Tuesday...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem