Burning plains

The dry feet stumble

across the scorched earth

and with every step dust rises

turning harder every breath.

Offerings to the clouds and sky

circle the mud huts of the town;

in vain, for the gods refuse to cry

and allow their tears to come down.

And the heat gets stronger

with no relief to be found

not in the shade nor in the dark

and on the old Death is soon bound.

The eldest man finally collapses

and enters fiery Hell on Charon’s boat,

but soon the weather discomforts him

and heads upwards to get his coat.

(A small tribute to Juan Rulfo)

The Girl in the Linen Dress

The golden light of dusk,
fed her eyes, her face and hair,
and turned on fire
the most beautiful linen dress.

Not the sand under her feet,
nor the sea to which she gave warmth,
could keep me from gazing,
at such a wonderful sight.

And she turned on her dance,
the welcomed marine breeze,
to which her sacred white dress kept beat,
channeling my every sense into the deepest bliss.

Yet, my every intent to approach her,
were desperately vain, as she followed
to turn and turn, fading out, growing pale,
turning my sweet princess, into a forgone tale.

(Happy 21st Birthday to me!)