the juice of my blood

A spring of juice to Yoyojewe

These colors are the colors of
my story, of my history of
Spanish gypsie traveling on
my own and imaginary world.

Orange, my a half orange...
Red, my a half heart...

I feel...
I always felt.
“Always” is the same of “never”,
or it is the same of “eternity”...
Always is I.
Always like the life, like the universe, like a second, like a breathing, like a life in love.
I feel my a half orange, my a half heart always full in your a half orange, in your a half heart.
Always these colors are the fluid river where our love dives always...
always always always
I, you, we drink this elixir of my blood.

a little paper ship

Port of Destination: Yoyojewe

I want to stop using virtual messages
I return to the corporeal thing
to the hands that weave letters in the empty loom
of this ever new horizon of life in the rough
that I am
every second
that I embroider
one to one
the letters of my body in desire
as this interwoven poem comes into view
where the wakeful history is planned from which I come
at the mercy of dreams to your veiled port