Poetry is the soul of life itself,
free on its flight,
it takes us to unsuspected corners
of impossible countries
with magic utopia
or to the raw reality
of the Hells we suffer
in agony and silence
and total self-denial;
but always with the elegance
of the one who spill
his own blood
from the inkstand of his very veins
to the desert of the paper,
flowering it
completely.