My grandmother was a white witch who inherited an altar in every stone of the Druids officiated half
where the white moon ceremonies .
He lit the lamps of a puff embroidered
the most beautiful stories with longer strands and evaporated
winter witch with just an orange peel without fear.
His world was a beacon lit
thunderbolts that distance from the eye kept fearful of camphor and naphthalene.
Devan Hanks charms in the dark castle towers
and put in his bunker, in the form of a golden tresses,
alongside portraits of unseen
and slow, fervent plumage of the legend and patience .
With his eyes water to be dissolved diseases such as fire flowers, lace
as snow,
and saved many souls from hell living and the dead
quietly haggling with the Saints until dawn.
It was a garden with his gentle courtship of birds, crazy and goblins. They announced
dogs.
When it rains leave me a steaming tea and a sprig of lavender.
My mother was a queen who has traded its domains on earth for a lot in the sky,
a small place for re-erection of the house and family.
will have fulfilled the covenant, because he had the gift to comply with and enforce all the way,
like a burn, the law of the word.
was as majestic as a cathedral and more heroic than any wall height
but changed according to the occasion, sweet or solemn,
like archangels. To back the shadows
ambushes, hungry packs, halving
bridges and nights with your hands so soft. Mastered
poisonous weeds just rubbing them with his toe,
discovered secret to the light bubbles on the bottom of streams and swamps,
and away the masks with stormy eyes as if drawing back a curtain.
returned many times from the edge of death, only to wrap.
It was for a very long way away
and, taking all the sun, a mountain.
Every night caress my head, tears the darkness and the tears dry.
My father was an infidel magician king quellegó to our south along the other side of the star.
came from sea to sea, from an island
intersected earthquakes, dynasties and winds,
and founded a colony of secret longings and treacherous salt that absorbs a díua
and one day the greedy sand.
His hands were not made to grab;
hands were palms up miracle offering, the pearl of the hopeful and destitute.
His senses as smart as the luminaries of forests
pagan and was able to convert a room suddenly enlugato in a ballroom,
a red apple on the summer's most coveted trophy, but had
under your skin and behind blue sparks of laughter a distant
brin, something like a hidden vocation of absence.
disease tied it with invincible ties to a stationary enclosure.
I've seen in Agrigento, in Jupiter's torso down between Greek columns.
He went with the tide, like a drowning man who is carried to shore.
It brings the dawn lit flares and a handful of almonds.
They return and take their places next to these windows, this table, this bed;
back with big chunks of walls and furniture and landscape and build dissolved
scenarios interspersed with strangers over the years.
have changed and are not limited to:
shared with me the brilliance and scratches on this side.
have changed and are not limited to: an opaque
moth, a falling object, the branch hitting the glass, this cold
running down my face.
may try as I venture to violate the time
to mix the cards of the present, future and past.
have not changed and are different.
not wax museum memory.
No. 13, the night drifting (1984)
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