In my side

I´ve walked alone

through golden ways.

It's a strange world

for poets,

and I'm glad not be one.


The days run fast,

snow is a spike

the wind confuses

with water sky.


It's a strange world,

truly.

Beautiful things

are neglected,

confused, ignored.


I'm glad not be a poet,

a strange white bird 

for this planet.


In my world

water may well be

an unknown fire

and the moon an

incandescent 

freezing sun.


Nobody questions

in my side.

The authentic order

of fantastic still prevails.


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