My Odyssey [a poem to travel]
Ithaca is like a house without homemade
or a field without flowers.
It's the place where I dream of pillows.
There I protect myself from cold nights.
Who hasn't traveled to the country of reality
doesn't know the myths of the road.
I would like to be able to walk the courtyards
with lost maps and found memories.
Destiny is like a vulgar mirror
who wants to take away my emotions
of a future written by freehand
with graphite of a broken pencil.
I run for my life, without escaping death.
When I reach across the seas of my fears
Ithaca will surrender at my feet, reigned,
and I will do the same projected, self-absorbed.
| For more: |
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Water [the poem of life]
On my desk [a place for all poems]
I'm drunk [a sparkling poem]
