Every time

Every time I write in a language that is not mine, I get too excited, as if I’d be in the last minute to board a vintage plane which will take to a far and unknown place.

My head shakes and the pen on my hand wobbles afraid to write down sacred or evil words.

In that moment I close my eyes and I get transported by a strange magnetic force.

When I opened them again, I am not seated in my desk. I am in a jungle or in a crowded city with neon signs I cannot read. But they do not frighten me, neither the inhabitants of such a faraway land, be natives or people wearing ties and suits most of them dark.

The best way to camouflage myself is to start doing what I see, and if it happens that they speak a language I understand at least a bit, then I start to talk and to smile.

Soon I get into a store and I buy clothes as the ones they wear and shoes and sandals as the ones they have, to become one of them.

Then I disappear in the middle of that jungle of green or in a long tunnel of a subway; and all I do is to see and write whatever shakes me, scares me or make laugh. And so, I become the writer I always wanted to be.

I writer who escapes any time he gets bored or sad, a writer who owns a magic piece of a paper and an enchanted pen to escape his desk and go somewhere else.

  

A Poem

A poem

Peels your skin off

Reaches your bloodstream

And from there

Travels all over your stomach,

your lungs, your brain and your heart.

And so, it makes you cry

Or think or pray.

 

Then

When you read a poem

Softly or aloud

You become God

Or a simple monk.

 

And you desire nothing.

Nothing than to thank

For such a beautiful

And marvelous

Life.