A veces me gusta afrontar las cosas
con la inocente perspectiva del pasado
hasta chocar con la horrible realidad,
la labor ante la cual no estoy preparado.

Cuando fantasía y memoria unen
fuerzas otra vez, revisión de lo pactado,
un nuevo proceso trae esperanza,
posibilidad de distinto resultado.

Es entonces cuando se muestra otra vez
con gran tamaño el error de lo labrado
y hay que empezar de nuevo otra vez:
en mi colección, nuevo acto fracasado.

Es más fácil mentir, vivir en engaño,
que darse cuenta de lo poco avanzado:
el largo trayecto lejos se proyecta
con su tenue luz, color de lo amargado.

No es de sorprender lo que pasa cerca
con aquel loco, de reflejo enmascarado,
que sufre y gruñe, planifica males:
está frustrado y por dentro muy cansado.

¿Es mejor no tocar esas cosas muertas?
Eso no lo sé (Perspectiva del Pasado)
pues con inocencia prefiero arriesgar
a ver otra vez aquel color amargado.

Wind and rain resound the distance
heavy ambience, gleam in dispair.
Inner chaos overlooked at a glance,
felt through struggle and need for air.

Days and nights gone by behind a screen,
hypnotized by lights, symbols and shapes
like we will, immersed in synthetic grass,
grasping for tools fit for cybernetic apes.

Cranial pressure due to things undone
and the constant, overwhelming noise,
is there a way around this?
A dimlit chance, now far and gone,
stubborn psyche and a fragile poise,
his incompetence only his.

Under poison or endless clicks
we find a small way to cope
an ignored reality that bends and ticks
while clinging to a dead hope;

by means of self deceit, slippery slope,
we keep adding weight to a heavy burden,
saying “yes” when the answer is “nope”,
wasting the bait in something to lure then.

Cold night, drops, full moon behind the clouds,
without guiding light we trip blindly and grope,
and lost we think and reflect, hearing sounds:
the mistake to shoot far without aim or scope.

At the gates of demise
there’s a rush or a delay,
and a consequent celebration,
for we can finally let go
or continue to hold on
to an ever-evolving dream.

Millimetric-plans aren’t always perfect.

No matter how careful,
nor how well played the execution,
things have a tendency to sway
and to lean on the unexpected,
the unnoticeable threat
that suddenly emerges,
but that was always there,
lurking, waiting, hiding.

In the aftermath only self-deceit
and menial consolation.
Mercyful self-patting on the back
trying to integrate the experience
acquired for future considerations;
but, sometimes so shattering,
the petty realization
that we rush to forget
or postpone to reflect,
strikes again from beneath,
coexisting with the so vast
ignored failures.

Patterns of repetition aren’t always endless.

At the crumbling edge,
where neither hope
nor will would suffice,
there’s a rushful delay
in the midst of the consecration,
oxymoron and paradox of fate,
for the distortion of time
is only a matter of perception,

just like the outcome,
continuous fruit of our deeds,
blooming or shrinking
in the ever-evolving stream,
of the things we desire
and of those unexpected.

In the end, what there applies
is how to play the game
without worrying about prize or consolation,
even at the gates of demise:
there can emerge new revelations.

Hay una verdad incómoda
insinuada en la falsa sonrisa
interpuesta en una relación de Poder.

Dominancias y humillaciones,
o gestos sub expuestos
en la justificación del engaño.

Igualmente hipócrita es la percepción
que, como la maquillada expresión,
en su sesgo ignora la molesta inconveniencia
para no abandonar la seguridad de la mentira.

Persistencia y Voluntad,
pilares alguna vez alcanzables con esfuerzo
reducidos ahora a clichés para señalar una virtud:

Es más fácil continuar con la farsa,
haciendo responsable a un tercero,
que darse cuenta quién es maestro
y quién esclavo en un espejo,
o en una proyectada relación de poder.

Petroglyphic figure manifested on the foam,
what does it mean?
Strange figure with deformed proportions,
sensual but not arousing;
voluptuous but not staggering.

And yet sacralizing and defouled,
like the dancing rites of the satyrs,
now stained in blood-like ink,
for otherwise these vague shapes
will also not last.

Disdain for memories so fray,
lost in the maze, kindling pyres,
looking for excuses to celebrate.

Biased measuer, time split in equidistnat date,
but still advancing and still decaying,
in an endless spiral where then was now and now is late.

Not a coincidence but a miraculous synchronicity;
restless beings emerge from the burial mound.
No longer an ordeal, but a hedonistic blasphemy
where we either no longer live or there is nothing left to die.

Double-headed shape or figure,
yet another bifurcated plasmation.
In the yearning for Unity we retreat to unconsciousness,
even at the depths of drunkenness.

The night before the haunt
was supposed to be filled
with pure joy or sheer terror,
but not a deep depression,
hopeless burden against all odds.

Arms extended reach out
trying to make a difference
or not to be dragged
on the sweeping of the tide,
but succumbing due to deep pressure.

Perhaps rain or wind,
or beasts howling in despair;
dreams of butch scavengers
feasting on the trade
of a mutilated corpse.

Things are not okay,
feeling echoes of a vacuum swirl.
The fog drips and stains
with the liquid twist
of its cold caress

and the clock ticks
as the time wanes
underneath the rough judgement,
a degradating stench of foul air
on the night before the haunt.