What is "destiempo"?

In middle timeless?
The time in the inter.time? Moment in the inter of the time? 
Being with the time, in its silence?

Be able to share...

COM unic. ar  -> to share
COM part. ir   -> to communicate


The tongue walks
through the bends
of the need
communicating.

The mouth pronounces
its opening.

Form and sound
do give birth a thought,
new words:
the future body
that summons us.

Detail that is expanded.

The eyes contract with the false

The sky is torn by a will bigger than the will own

and the excessive sweetness

becomes bitter and gnaws the guilty body.

What is the fault? Who creates it and who does inherit it?

The sobs of your face reveal inertia and loss.

About what do you think that you become exhausted?

Confused in turbulent passions, everything your around

is apathy disguised of emotional illnesses.

It`s that it`s necessary to answer to the spurs of the faith, 

to the sensations, to the emotions …

… Masses, shouts, marriages, births, deaths, 

explosions, censorship, jeers, praises, complaints, 

ejaculations, weeping, anger, shame …

Apathy disguised of a stinking life of actions and 

sleepwalkers, drugged, ghostly and mechanical reactions.

About what do you think so much 

like to retire to the time and to leave it to die in more time 

or in unknown almost dry tears?

The unknown thing continues being a stranger.

You will be still feeling a bit of powder or a point of light.

Which is the difference?

You miss, though you do not know it, the which is in you

as an intimate secret, and not another thing.

Nothing is more missed than this:

that what want to emerge ardently from this unknown

and to flow endless in us.

Where is Cain?

And where is Cain?,

which gets lost inside if?

Let's be the heretics of this world,

Let's go to the land that waits for us.

Every handwriting of this wind is a sound of my voice

your voice

a wave of silence and ripple

that enters to the ear and one shelters melodic in the body.

I listen to a rain that does not exist,

it wets me a rain that does not exist,

and I, spongy, as a cotton speck,

as the land.

A trip to the seed

To The egg incubated in my

To The ice where even

there fades away a stela of the voice of the giants.

The reflection of the horizons

To the distance

these infinite limits

come like evaporating

for the heat of the look:

A time that is a recollection,

a future before lived, and not lived.

Secret beings of silence

in a tacit compass,

dance on the salty water

Celebrating a mute and invisible holiday.

Look at them to sing! Look at them to dance

these giants in his caravan of trip

towards a stranger, celebrating what …!

Is here the detachment of the Universe,

the curve is necessary,

the unpronounceable outline.

Is here the black hole, the black Sun:

Image of ancient wisdom, recollection of the future.

Is here to the incomprehensible whirlwind                 

with face of nothing and silence.

Is here the final moment,
when the colors change and oneself is another thing

because a limit crosses,

because we fall down inward.

The Sun hides it self,

the land turns, and with him

it goes away the time

and the green

of a beam stays.

Lovers, loved.

It stays the night …

Will it be this night? The dark night of the souls?

It will be the night of the love or will be the night of the dread?

The last Great War comes untied, magic and starred

with the blood spilt by rocks and steps of stone.

The recollection is a light.

Our body greets to the new Sun                               

that today, gets up.