Nada llego’ a dar flor,
Los poetas viven de ilusiones,
Como buenos cobardes que son!
Bitterness
In the summer of my songs
Nothing ever flowered,
Poets live from illusions,
As do, most good cowards.
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Talent, Creativity,
It can be bettered,But is always fettered,To the artist’s inner soul.
Poetry is,
Combined,Listen to its orchestraPlayingSymphonies,For everybody’sSoul and Mind.
I would have loved
With a love ready to share,With all the loving care,That inspired all the poetry,Of every love affaire.I would have lovedTo have loved you,By just holding your hand,Or looking into your eyes,No words to understand.I would have lovedTo have loved you,From here to eternity,The problem always was,You never did love me.And yet, I still love you,As…
Sometimes,
All is nothingAnd nothing is all,Emptiness, prevailsDown long empty halls,And yet!We hold on,To Life’sIncomprehensibleCallBecause Hope stillBurn eternal,In those withSensitive SoulsAs creativity playsIts saving role.
What has not been
Will not be saidBy anything else,For its spiritIs above all,And by LoveIt has beenBlessed
Like Thorns of Solitude,
The broken heart,A lark, no longer sings,Can’t move its wingsIn sweet depart.There is no ‘brand new start’,After a while, even a smileBecomes a hurting memoryOf what again can never be.And you start to fall apart,Slowly but surely,Broken arrow in the heart.