Lie! If I tell you I'm a poet
facing the setting sun
In myriads of color sinking
As if the pain also needed rest
Because it hurts me in colors to see the world
So gray at times and fair in splendor
maybe when i'm different
Like who writes at this moment
And he is not a poet either
Oh well, that's not even close.

My pain must be a lie
Because I pretend that so much absence hurts me
My pretense is words
And almost every time they say nothing
Nothing well translate about what I think
They swim as if I were a castaway in them
Whom not even a pious applause saves.

Poets see their enduring islands
And mine is melting before my eyes
Without finding any way to avoid it.

Lie! I am not what they call me:
Cunning poet inspired by the night.
poets are winged beings
And my wings are from the same bloody
Smell of a very sad river.