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y Ella
todo lo vuelve yermo,
y a tus palabras
impone silencio
Addendum, 13 mayo 2011
En el hueco de aquel árbol
sobre el cerro encaramado
el viento ruge;
en el pueblo creen eso,
pero no es cierto,
es mi alma que sufre
aún después de yo haber muerto;
En la cima de aquel cerro
me tendí a esperar
que las bestias acabase con mi cuerpo;
En los campos amarillos
la Primavera baila
agitando verdes trigos;
Mas en el cerro del tormento
nada nuevo ha nacido,
allí cayó un día mi cuerpo,
en la hierba bailan hoy los cuervos
JLP 1997
I got printed the cold light of a March morning in the high land of Castile. Here is a proper way for an artist to say that he was born in a village. Spain, province of Soria; have you ever heard of this ?.
I lived there for a few years. Then, followoging life´s whimsical will I finally landed in Madrid. In this city have I my present and, hopefully, definitive abode.
As an artist I haven´t gone through any particular, or academical learning. I mean, to the point to get...
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