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Dear friends, Liebe Freunde

"La Barca de Papel" Yours brimming with joy, for fourteen years has served
sailing poems stowed between the seas and rivers.
"La Barca de Papel" daughter of the American Authors Association in Austria
mother of the anthology "Poetry Between Two Worlds" is a living being
revealing the humus of the earth who taught us the first color, which raises
sheets of snow, talking to the birds wandering
captives, soles turned off, looking through his fingers the
melancholic dance of stars and recording in memory the steps
dark silence.
"La Barca Paper "has faced the storm of life at sea, rescued
poems shipwrecked sailors stranded in remote islands, poets
surfing the giant waves of injustice and violence, pirates
with chocolate skin and eyes made of ivory.
"La Barca de Papel," knows that without joy, without tears from your
environment, without the friendship and solidarity of his friends without his mother
that gives life to life, without the tree, fruit without love to love, would be impossible to sail stowed
poems.
"La Barca de Papel" also mourning the absence of Gloria Aparicio-Sena and Gregorio Mena
poets and writers who died suddenly. They
sailed together at the helm of hope and dreams of Barca,
weathered time and drew words to life. And one day he went to play with the moon
childhood.
"La Barca de papel" brotherly thanks to the translators for their work
solidarity for their sensitivity and spirit of comradeship.
"The Paper Boat" opens its pages, fraternal greetings and offers on drinks
stones, by the deep root in the years ahead. Manuel Ramos Martínez

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, ASH

"La Barca de Papel", das Papierschiff, grüßt voller Freude euch, da sie schon
vierzehn Jahre mit ihrer Gedichte von Ladung Travel on deep seas and currents
.
"La Barca de Papel," daughter of the Association Latin American authors in
Austria and mother of the anthology "Poetry between two worlds" is a
living being. In it is revealed the humus of the earth, taught us the
first colors in it to inflate snow fields such as sheets, speak of him
lost, captive birds, it ignites extinct suns,
viewed through the fingers of columns the melancholic dance of the stars
and preserved in his memory the steps of the shadowy silence.
"La Barca de Papel" has withstood the storms of the open sea, shipwrecked
Poems rescued and taken to remote islands left behind
sailors, poets in the fight against the huge waves of
injustice and violence, pirates with chocolate skin and eyes
ivory.
"La Barca de Papel," knows that without the joy, without tears, without
the affection and solidarity of their friends, without the mother who gives life
life without the tree and its fruit, without the love of
love her ride with her poetic charge could not continue.
"La Barca de Papel" weep for Gloria Aparici-Sena and Gregorio Mena,
poets and authors who went suddenly from us. They stood with us on the steering wheel
of hope and dream of this vehicle that they braved thunderstorms
and wrote the life of your words. And one day she went there,
to play with the moon of her childhood.
"La Barca de papel" thanks to the translators for their selfless work, their
empathy and team spirit.
"La Barca de Papel" opens its pages, greets you sisters and fills
stone cup to drink the deep roots of the coming years.
Manuel Ramos Martínez

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Patricio Cordero, Chile por esas aguas

parte de nuestra historia navegará
, en el fondo depositará
se del sea \u200b\u200b
and occasionally

waves will bring a memory.

These words are inspired by
information that reached me in relation to
ceremony held the first Friday in December in Chile, where part of the ashes
Jose Maldonado (who died in
France) were scattered Aconcagua River. Diese Worte

entstanden unter dem Eindruck der Nachricht von der
Zeremonie, bei der am ersten Freitag des letzten
Dezembers in Chile Asche des
in Frankreich verstorbenen
Jose Maldonado in den Fluss wurde gestreut Aconcagua. Asche


Wassern

In diesen wird ein Part of our history flow,
sink to the seabed, and
from time to time the waves wash

us a memory approach.

These words were under the impression of
news of the ceremony, in which the first was
Friday of last December in Chile ashes of the deceased in France
José Maldonado
the river Aconcagua scattered.

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BARCA PAPER PAPIER AUS SCHIFF

María Fischinger, Perú - Eslovenia - USA

En el ancho de nuestras vidas mar, las olas de palabras nos
acercan,
deshaciendo sus poemas en Espumas
sobre la arena y de lejanías décadas.
Flotando, Esbelta y la Frágil
paper boat travels the distances and times.
reaches the port
idea exchange on the horizon of the letters.
Driven by the breeze
language that unites us in our new countries in European lands.

which crosses the infinite pigeon
message that carries in its beak
stories, experiences
poems, songs.
messages of love and friendship
banishing the loneliness and isolation.

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Mary Fischinger, Peru

unserer Leben Im Meer Weiten,
bringen uns einander Naher Wellen von Worten, der Schaum streut

Gedichte von Entfernung auf den Sand und Jahrzehnten. Schlank
und zerbrechlich cuts through the bark
distances and times.
At anchor in the harbor it is the exchange of ideas,
on the horizon of the Scriptures.
It drives them to the gentle wind of the language that unites us in our new
European home countries.
you cross the infinity

poems like the dove in its beak.
stories, experiences. to banish
messages of love and friendship
to loneliness and isolation.

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Aura Maria Vidales Ibarra, Mexico

Vengo a abrir una ventana para que en esta pared
no sea triste la oficina. A una palabra
clavar, un poema. Abrir una puerta a la
Eternidad de enfrente a la ciudad que
imaginamos, al río
al tren, adventure and a source.
I come to open a window, a letter a telegram

a mirror down the wall, pass the death.
For every time you look out and look at your landscape
new
see the horizon beyond
only what we love can be.

Mexican poet and journalist. He has published poems
Dreams, Icicles, Ballad for a light wind,
empty windows, Singing for a warrior, Rainbow (
poetry for children).

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Aura Maria Vidales Ibarra, Mexiko

Ich komme in ein Fenster zu öffnen dieser Wand
damit das Büro ist nicht so traurig.
anzuheften Ein Wort, ein Gedicht. Eine in die Türe
Infinity towards the city
we invent ourselves, the river
the railway, the adventure and a well.
I come to open a window, a letter
a telegram as a mirror
down the wall to pass through death.
this every time because you look at yourself and your new landscape hinauslehnst

you see on the horizon as
for his only love what we do.

Poeta y study period mexicana. Ha publicado los poemarios
Ensueños, Estalactitas, Balada para un viento suave,
Ventanas vacías, Canto para un guerrero, Arco Iris (poesía para niños
).

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POETRY

Matchornicova (Monica Haprichkov)
Austria-Chile

As silk dress, if
afternoon having fun with your nakedness, or through your bank
to break up the soul,
tell me if exist forever, because from watching your colors
before without knowing that your return is the return
so many that are gone,
ah, you want to define beloved lady
still of the night, your presence tacit
decipher the scene of a letter, or many ...

do not know is that we have gone hand in hand and you with them and I
you deposited tears, grieving
thirsty, almost dead have been
and almost nothing
not respond, stay in limbo dreams, hopes
the image, by magic.
Mute before you name, let me fall asleep and sleep for today
,
forever.


http://islainfinita.altervista.org/mio/page7/page7.html
http://usuarios.lycos.es/skorpiona/matchornicova.htm
http://www.poetasdelmundo.com/verInfo_europa.asp ? ID = 793
http://www.lacoctelera.com/poesiasubterranea/categoria/matchornicova
http://www.megaone.com/cantoria/sopranos/matchornicova.htm

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POESIE

Matchornicova (Monica Haprichkov) Österreich-
Chile

in Seide Kleider dich Wie wenn der Nachmittag deine
Nacktheit liebt,
or your bank overcome to bring the soul to collapse,
tell me if you are there has always been, as before,
I looked at your color, not knowing that your return
coming home is so many that have gone were
alas, they do define you, beloved, quiet
lady of the night, thy silent
being here on the stage of one or decipher many letters ...
I do not know
and
but we went hand in hand with them and you
and I with you, we were back tears, thirsting
'm almost dead and we were
almost nothing, do not answer
, stay on the edges of dreams
wait for the image, the magic. Let me fall silent
before I call you, you to sleep and now weigh

sleep for ever.


http://islainfinita.altervista.org/mio/page7/page7.html
http://usuarios.lycos.es/skorpiona/matchornicova.htm
http://www.poetasdelmundo.com/verInfo_europa.asp ? ID = 793
http://www.lacoctelera.com/poesiasubterranea/categoria/matchornicova
http://www.megaone.com/cantoria/sopranos/matchornicova.htm

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THE FROG FISH FOR THOUGHT

Juan Godoy, Chile

Nota : Recomendado para el cuento it Seres con nervios de pez .... No es fácil

convencer un pez, least tell you it is frog. The
problems were immense. The fish was isolated and not salute or
his mother. I looked all day frogs ... One afternoon, the much lese,
jumped out of the lake and wanted to jump like frogs ... A failure
was not breathing and was going to the other side of the door ... A frog
young and saved his life potion.
fell in love with her rescuer ... I showed her large eyes
leads and brought him to water flowers ... I could not work ... no, no. It was all useless and less
ask the hand of the frog because it would not.
cried the fish ... They say that his tears were green ... and later, god knows what miracle
whale roaming the lakes, the fish became
frog.
was something very beautiful and very sad.
fish parents wept over his disappearance while saving the frog and a twinkle in her eye
... They spent the night singing to the moon. To be loved ...
and at dawn the fish ceased to be a frog.
The story is born eyed frogs leads ... and the fish ...
fish or dad plays with his kids and his mother played with him.

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DER FISCH, DER SICH FÜR einen HIELT FROSCH

Juan Godoy, Chile
Anmerkung: Lektüre empfohlen für Menschen mit Fischnerven ...

Es ist nicht leicht, einen Fisch zu überzeugen davon, oder auch nur zu ihm
sagen, dass he is not a frog. Major problems were
inevitable. The fish had been completely sealed off and greeted
not even his mother. Throughout the day, he looked like the frogs
to ... One evening the idiot jumped out of the
pond to skip like the little frog, which turned out to be a
flop. He could not breathe and was more over there than over here ...
A young and winsome frog wife saved his life
.
He fell in love with his savior ... He showed her his big
lead-gray eyes and delighted them with water plants ... But the
could not go well, oh no ... Because everything was hopeless, completely
particularly But to stop the hand of Fröschin, for this would
he probably never implemented. How
wept because the fish! ... It is said that his tears were green ...
and one evening, God knows what home is looking for a whale-time miracle
the ponds, the fish became a frog.
It was beautiful and deeply sad. The parents of the fish
wept whether his disappearance, while the Rettungsfröschin him winking
know ... All night long they sang to the moon.
loved and safe ... but in the morning the fish was not a frog
more. Then came
many frogs with lead-gray eyes to the world ...
and the fish ... or fish dad played mit mit seinen Sprösslingen,
wie seine Mutter mit ihm früher.

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want to be a light in your eyes
a stone in your hand

want to be a flower in your garden
a trill of bird in the forest

want to be a storm in the night lightning storm in you
I want to be earth


covering your dream when I no longer want to be there last fire

your evening
when red sun sinks

want to be the sound of your voice, that turns off the music
you and me.

Wiplinger
Peter Paul was born in 1939 in Haslach, Upper Austria. Poet, narrator y fotógrafo.

LOVE POEM

I want a light
in your eyes be
a stone in your hand
I want a flower
in your garden are
a bird call in the forest
I want to be a storm
be stormy night
a fire lightning in you
I want to be earth
thee in sleep covered
if I am not here anymore
I would last light
be night sky on your
if red the sun goes down
I would like ton of those in your
agree his music with the
fades away in you and me.

born 1939, Haslach, Upper Austria. Poet, storyteller, Photograph. Http://www.wiplinger.at.tf/

http://ejournal.thing.at/litprim/wipp

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A POEM OF LOVE along the Danube

Alejandro Avella, Spain

I see your eyes in mine
your tears come to
wind but tears do not fall to the ground
only poems written in the wind We are trees with roots

wind tore the leaves
soil, or migratory birds
stars of Red Army troops in the wind Blood
taste of your vineyards
today your table

tears of the people gathered at night

the banks of the Danube river water we drink
our steps next to yours
our sueños mañana al viento.

ON THE BANKS OF THE DANUBE

your eyes I see in my
the wind pushes you tears
but no tears fall to the ground
only poems, written for the wind
We are trees whose roots
the wind
ripped from the ground leaves, stars and a red army soldiers
migratory birds in the wind
The blood of your vineyards
we taste today at your table
the tears of the people

pressed at night on the banks of the Danube
we drink the water of the river
our steps accompany your
our dreams tomorrow the wind

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Lady López, Mexico
ladylz954@yahoo.es
CITIES
(Chronicle of a crime)
"For you, Oaxaca;
for your grief and sad because you agree."
I
cities there are like angels, fallen in ruin,
leave with walls and birds of sand, stone
with landscapes that silenced the flight
bleeding eyes and ash-colored shade.
cities of votes in the dispute and wistful cries
people with dark skin who are looking for in the walls of silence.
Yes, there are cities with palaces as offerings to the oblivion
and when the horizon in the asphalt dissolves
their children crying from hunger on the barricades.
cities by fire and war
stalked by the vigilant night as an eye-extinguishing.
II
Oaxaca black clay pigeons and bright,
the Sphinx rises above your votes
killed in the tragic night of intrigue.
wall of air, the storms hoist, sleeps
your town besieged by fire during
God on his bed groaning
looks up with pin sight.
eyes of a mythical creature, forgetting dedicated
hurts you because you are the city of fog
and all is silence in your smile.
woman from Tehuantepec, light and serene clarity
you do you carry a banner from flaming, curly
Skin.
III
fire birds fly over your stone quarries,
mustard yellow to accuse the people who
your body and forget the contrary.
You know the troubles suffered by your country,
know the misery, the midnight
songs and the sweet hope of saving the animal.
The women dress the sky with their fabrics and embroider
stars while others die.
I sing of your mourning,
your gods who sleep in Mitla
and your forests that clothe my wines.

Posted: 29 and 30 October and on 2 November 2006.

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STADT (Untitled)

Armando González Torres, Mexico

For the delicate web of mystery and the subtle circle

random moments that governs the presiding
sublime faith, desire and tear for that random
fierce and compassionate
servants were under the sign alphabets

remote inquire that debased the language of the tribe
tested with spurious rhetorical
who get labia throat. Those years of fire
seizure
those afternoons of anxiety and paradox
met the thirst of the corpses and drank the liquid
pious.
the book The thirst of the dead

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(ohne Titel)

Armando González Torres, Mexico

Um des fragile Netzer the mystery,
the delicate circle of chance sake ruled
of the sublime moments of faith,
of desire and tear
to the wild or compassionate fate
we were servants of the subject mark
explored remote alphabets
corrupted the language of the tribe
proven wrong speech arts
of their saliva throat ill.
In those years of a quivering fire
on those nights full of longing and absurdity
we got to the thirst of the carcass
and emptied the religious drink.

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FACES AND GESTURES

Armando González Torres en sitios de

Meters mala muerte, y más de beber
despertar con la
sospecha that you have stolen the face.

A face is a handful of dust that dares to

smile before being dispersed by the broom.

His face was the flowering of a corpse, and his voice a discordant echo

who refused to acknowledge.

in the clouds and water are also formed
sensualísimos faces.

all face is deep, and if you look at him,
feel dizzy.

was recognized in some faces, is hated in
many more.

Eyes Without basins, empty veins, nostalgic noses
their breaths.

A face is carved first in the desert sand
and then the wind filtered hidden regions where a legion of anonymous
Baptist tries to give a proper name. Ash

gesture that night before and you were leaving you were seduced by the looks
.

We have a face that aja, which is transformed into
every gesture, but another face
keep unchanged in memory.

Save it to your memory today was more merciful. That

the book that illuminates the world,
Oaxaca, Almadía, 2006.

Armando González Torres, born in Mexico City in 1964. Poet and essayist.
National Poetry Award "Gilberto Owen" and test "Alfonso Reyes." The poems
Orthodox conversation (Aldus 1996), The thirst of the dead
(Dagger, 1999), On neat (Verdehalago, 2001) and That which illuminates the world
(Almadía, 2006). Essay books
cultural wars Octavio Paz (Hummingbird 2001) and intellectuals die (Planeta, 2005).

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Gesicht UND GEBÄRDEN

Armando González Torres

In Miesen Spelunker abtauchen, über den Durst trinken und mit dem
Verdacht Erwachen, dass man dir
gestohlen hat das Gesicht.

Handvoll Ein Gesicht ist eine die ein Staub
Lächeln Wagt
zerstreut bevor sie der Besen.
Sein Gesicht war das
Erblühen Leiche der, seine Stimme
a tune echo
denied the knowledge.

from cloud and water releases
also the most sensual of faces.

Each face is a bottomless pit, and if you stare at
vertigo attacks after you.

He recognized himself in some faces again, many more
he despised himself.

eyes without caves, empty veins, nose, which yearn
their breath.

A face is formed only from the desert sand
and then screened the wind to distant regions, where a legion of nameless
Baptist seeks to give it a name.

ashes were you last gesture, and from the looks deceive you
reads.

We have a face that withered in
turns every gesture, but
another, unchanging face we keep in mind.

Keep the one I had today, in devout remembrance. From Eso que ilumina
el mundo,

Oaxaca, Almadía, 2006. Armando González Torres

, born in Mexico City 1964th Poet and essayist.
Awarded the Prize of Poetry "Gilberto Owen" and the prize for essay writing
"Alfonso Reyes". Volumes of poetry La conversación ortodoxa (Aldus
1996), La sed de los Cadaver (Daga, 1999), Los días prolijos (Verdehalago,
2001) und That which illuminates the world (Almadía, 2006).
Essaybände cultural wars Octavio Paz (Hummingbird 2001) und die intellectuals That
(Planeta, 2005).

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HOLBERG TIME BETWEEN SHADOWS

Alejandro Drewes, Argentina
drewes@arnet.com.ar

is said,
and on the record:
all that

have is as fragile as life
.

But now provides for the kingdom of God
in heavy ice glasses, listening
still sounds like music,
yes, the same music,
eternal music, from the time of Holberg.

Born in Buenos Aires (1963). Poet, editor, teacher
universitario (Unsame, Argentina) e investigador.
Miembro de Honorario IFLAC en Argentina.
Ambas versiones del poema de son Alejandro Drewes.

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HOLBERGSZEIT

Alejandro Drewes, Argentina
drewes@arnet.com.ar

It's been said
stored in files:
all that
what you have is so

fragile as life itself.
drinking but now
listen to God's Kingdom
of heavy ice glasses,
sounds like music, oh
the same music,
eternal music, from Holberg's time.

Born in Buenos Aires (1963). Poet, editor,
University Professor (Unsame, Argentina) and Forscher. Ehrenmitglied
des IFLAC (Forum für internationales und-kultur
Friedensliteratur) Argentinien. Beida
Fassung von Stammen des Gedichts
Alejandro Drewes.

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Luis Alberto Battaglia, Argentina

sometimes to the tides, fishermen
remember their childhood;
are moments, just creations
wind and shadows. Villagers far

of your dreams
dance like lightning.
Stay Here
to the starry sky, I wonder

by the archaic signs of fear, hatred
,
of boredom. Perhaps

just one question and then
fishermen
as I sink into the lips of the night. Here and there


at sea millennial

the miraculous difference is the word,

words to say there was once a dream
.

Born in Buenos Aires in 1959. Owner, editor, director and former webmaster of
http://www.battaletras.com.ar/ http://home.ar.inter.net/pagina,
http://www.lapluma-nin.com, http : / / www.battaletras.com and http://www.lahormydoc.com and http://www.lahormydoc.com/avisos-gratis/index.htm
and
as director and moderator of http://ar .groups.yahoo.com / group / virtual
paginantes with workshop.
Owner editor, director y de http://paginantes.blogspot.com blog master.

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Luis Alberto Battaglia, Argentina

Sometimes, in the face of the flood,
remember the fishermen of their childhood;
are created moment by merely
wind and shadows.
The distant neighbors
dance their dreams
like lightning. Here

dormant beneath the starry sky I wonder

to the archaic character of fear, hatred
,
weariness.
Just a question perhaps
and how the fishermen
I dive into the lips of the night.

Here as there, in the thousand years of sea

does the word
the miracle of the difference, say words to
:

it once was a dream.

Born in Buenos Aires, 1959. Owner, editor, director and webmaster of
http://www.battaletras.com.ar/ ex http://home.ar.inter.net/pagina,
http://www.lapluma-nin.com, http : / / www.battaletras.com,
http://www.lahormydoc.com and http://www.lahormydoc.com/avisos-gratis/index.htm;
director and host of http://ar.groups .yahoo.com / group / paginantes
with virtual workshop.
owners, managers and blog master of http://paginantes.blogspot.com.

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Leonel Robles, México

(Two pieces)

I stop images. Peel
one by one all the similarities do not understand
and build the routine.
My father is apparent from the dead branches in a simulation to reconstruct
fear.
The trunk is now the hero of the story.
The vigor of the trees is marked by the four arms of the compass.
A minute of identity in each prayer, the idol barefoot.
My father was about his age and harden the landscape.
I can not avoid his gaze, and I know you think
in life.
My father is the son of Pan long looking back
symmetry
as if the data, dates, genealogy representation
is suddenly revealed
and they had their way the world of me, you, us.
But he knows a fateful detention, denial, rejection
,
punishment upon your head will keep
in memory of others.
I follow my journey with a new sentence
my hands.
I travel.
watch the world before me, I keep
branches following my steps, to save the

the return trip.
My eyes are filled with so much light and fresh
hung suspended.
leave my archipelagos

my angel mask and cursing the closeness of the night
because I have not said anything that can be explained.
The man was not born yet,
is only the air wing that will come to ply
.
I seek, I return, I am elemental phosphorus
─
night of the birth of the night. Outside
speak of other than
untouchable

with cracked tracks that grow uncontrollably the distance between the edge
and my beginning.
More moisture is black light,
but inside I am, my circumstances,
light is only a matter of crossing the two edges
to reach me a candle
anchored.

Leonel Robles, was born in Sola de Vega, Oaxaca, in 1964.
has written short stories, poetry and criticism major literary magazines and newspapers
Mexico. He won the poetry contest of the Faculty of Sciences UNAM
policies. Author of poetry collections
Exiles of age, benefit from light, Praise
Corps and confessed and Crime anthologies of stories and poems.
currently preparing a book of poetry and the novel temporal Paradise The
dilettante.

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Leonel Robles, Mexiko

(zwei Fragmente)
inne Ich halte in den Bildern.
Eine andere um die ich die Ähnlichkeit lose ab, die ich nicht verstehen errichte
und das Tagwerker.
Mein Vater sich aus den Dürres Lost Zweig in an attempt to replicate the
fear.
The trunk is now the idol of the story.
The power of trees is described by the four main arms.
One minute of self in every prayer, the barefoot Idol.
My father comes closer to his age and harden the landscape.
I can not avoid his gaze
and know he thinks of life.
My father is the son of Pan, long considered the symmetry of the
return
as if the dates the data, the tree of Figure
revealed to him, unexpectedly
would be in his hands the world of the ego, of You, of the We.
But he knows that a disastrous captivity a negation
rejection,
a penalty over his head
keep him in mind of others is.
I continue my journey, with a new prayer
in my hands.
I travel.
Watch the world before me, let
no branches behind my steps to
me to save up the false step on the way back.
My eyes go over with a light
so vague as just hanged.
I leave my archipelagos,
mask
my angels and I curse the Middle of the Night
since I have not said what would explain.
Man is not yet born,
he is only the air wing of their
Groove will move.
I am looking for, return to
am elemental phosphorus
-night of the birth of the night.
Outside I can speak from the other
of untouchables,
drive with split tracks
the distance between the shore and my beginning
immeasurably.
Blacker than the humidity is the light, but
in it is me, my fact,
is taking lighting is just about to cross the two edges
to come with me
anchored in a sail.

Leonel Robles, born in Sola de Vega, Oaxaca, 1964. Published stories, poetry and literary criticism
in the most prestigious magazines and newspapers
Mexico. Lyrikpreisträger der Fakultät für Politikwissenschaft der UNAM.
Gedichtbände: Exiles of age, benefit from light, Praise of
Bodies; Anthologie und He confessed crime of stories and poems.
In Vorbereitung: Temporary Paradise Gedichtband und der der Roman The
dilettante.

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Maria Angeles Juarez, Mexico

By Dr. Jesus Arenas Osuna
By the light of his eyes.
That delight of trills
provides the setting sun! Golden
footprint fall!
December at the margins of cold, gold and purple
declines to the horizon to reach the sea

mountain with liquid racket boys
the Kyrie Eleison from Mass in "Re" greater.
Across the road, the parish
half awake,

bronze bells tolling and light of a sentence.
At this time,
digress at the mercy of my senses,
cardinal bird in flight bat
taciturn love away. Boy
Capricorn
here I am thinking you
body and soul in my delirium,

owner of a destination to share with you only in dreams.
do not know why I feel overwhelmed when they hear
uncertainty avocado orchards far from my sight among the branches

thick bark of the anonymous Street,
desolate gloom bites round fruits imprecise moments
to fall. None
strange avenue named after a hero;
the continuing shadow flicker open trails rested
lilac
lead me to be part of a symposium irremediable

yesterdays requiring absences felt like death. Boy
Capricorn:
If divine wisdom, return to life one day
innumerable light, without transgression

time my voice from an old progeny

ask your men will accompany me, in this house planted
of ferns
dream where the hours do not correspond
the ticking of the universe,
and lived on the expiry of the afternoon, excessive lethargy

in the mountains. Fall

traces its golden footprint in your eyes, and mine, melancholy diluted
no fixed meridian. Capricorn Boy

true to your omens
summon benevolence, in the twilight arid

follow the trail wandering of my dreams;
two women in white clouds
bode
accompany you and let me in territories inhabited
of time without Adelaide
time where my daughter,
is the painful history of my blood.

YESTERDAY Colloquium, Téllez María Ángeles Juárez.
(Rancho El Meson Michoacán. Sci.
December of 2004)

Téllez María Ángeles Juárez was born in Michoacan,
studied English Literature at the Faculty of Arts of the UNAM. From 1984 to 1986 he was collaborating with the storyteller
Mexican Juan de la Cabada. In 1989 he coordinated the workshop
Introduction to Literary Research and Composition
Casa de la Cultura "La Quinta Colorada." Among his publications is
Ariadna calligraphy and poems under the sunflowers. In 2003, the UNAM
lit the publication of Things I Left in the distance / Memories of Juan de la Cabada
.