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a kid I wanted to keep a diary.

I never did. Perhaps because she had allegedly

time, and nothing to write important.

I preferred to run, jump, play with friends.

I was a thoughtful child.

I liked to play games silent, lonely and quiet.

create armies of soldiers, kingdoms and empires on the atlas of my great grandfather who bring the world of 1936 and that I was allowed to scribble at will.

did not have time for a diary.

grow up then, with the advent of weblogs I have created a series my space, but without being able to be really me:

I have to prove something to someone, to have to be cool, much cooler here than in real life.

Enough.

I want to talk to me.

indeed abolish first the case at least at the beginning of the sentences after the dot.

so I write faster, so much to you that you care, if the case?

to begin with I mean my sense of emptiness.

I have an empty feeling.

I no longer love.

mean love women, love the woman I loved.

I love people who love each other naturally, children, mother and father, brother. that there is merit in this? That does not mean to have feelings, how strong I love these people.

emptiness in my soul is not like most others, outsiders.

you, I'll call it, she just, she loves me damn, but I do not feel anything. They're not love.

me tenderly. I flat-spotted yesterday in the face of all the evil that I have done, especially as I badly rewarded his love and devotion.

and I have not felt anything.

is the void in me, insensitivity.

at this time I want to stay elsewhere, on a boat in the sea.

scent of seaweed and rotten, and sea gulls, creaking axle gears.

do not like fish. stinks.

rum but yes, the sea, and mermaids.

I'm on my boat by myself, with rum and sirens.

to hell with the rotten fish.

when I'm bored Slowly return to Haiti. There is a small port there, a principle of freedom in a country slave who broke his chains to be closer still chained, but is free inside. fearless as a lion.

sooner or later will be free again.

Cross of Guevara

of Paul Laraque

Haitian poet in exile, who died recently .

Christ was born in Pampa
Christ cracked
Christ of Guatemala guerrilla
avenging Christ who drove the thieves from the temple of Christ crucified in Cuba

who lives in Bolivia
us for a lifetime of freedom

Christ Christ of peasants and workers


struck at the heart of Christ men are fighters


and what they do with your death we resurrected

(From The sand exile, Multimedia Publishing, 2003, Salerno, translated by Giancarlo Cavallo)

http://www.sagarana.net/rivista/numero15/poesia8.html

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image by Hypericum

http://www.flickr.com/photos/iperio/