SOMETIMES I feel tiny. A log burning
oblivion.
My soul is sometimes a butterfly
grieving in his mortal hour.
And sometimes the heart I close
As men who sleep in graves.
a shame born of pain
That I belong outside as much as the old bloods
That have spread the story
Like the old men who have pierced my name.
And my complaint is the guitar on the last corner of marquetry.
Sometimes, just sometimes scares me
night howling and your car.
But with a pen I can make lines that look
Your waist
And sometimes I can, because you let them, small moons
View gathering in your mouth
That is the fullness of the universe.
But land fall children. Frutos
hunger squeezes and pulls at the corners.
And their faces have signs of smoke, carbon monoxide and oblivion.
I feel sometimes, just sometimes
Impossible as its food.
Sometimes, just sometimes sounding
write epitaphs in night
Here lives a poet.
actually live here.
Gámez Carlos Parra Stivens Colombian
With this poem participated in the second Poetry Contest of Heptagrama
