Tag Archives: poetry

The Lost Heart of a Lamb

23 May

Silhouette, group of happy children playing on meadow, sunset, s

O Father, can you see me cry outside?
I’ve fallen deep inside a hole,
too close to a wooden door
that will never let me inside
a Paradise never known
by mortals in this life.

O Mother, can’t you hear me call for help?
I’ve fallen to my grave
and I’ve injured too much my nails
to crawl back to the grass
in where I would touch my face
and believe in my heart…

O World, can’t you listen the wolves behind?
They’ve eaten my heart,
and now I’ve become part of their pelt
and now I’ve become part of their pest
that withers the flowers by my side
and whom the trees dread
when I walk around their land…

O God, can’t you see what they’ve done to me?
I’ve lost my face inside a well.
The water would show my face back then,
but now I see a monster of shining teeth.
Yet no one seems to see,
as their eyes are no longer water to drink
nor the mirror inside a well.
They’ve become cold stones without a price,
chiseled by the sharp images in their life
and who no longer want to see
what they don’t want to see.

O myself, can’t you see your face anymore?
I no longer see people.
I no longer see life.
I have now the face of the wolf.
I have lost the eyes of the lamb.
I find myself no longer in territory of God,
but rather in a grizzly battlefield
in where I can ripe flowers once more
by tearing them apart
from the chests of the animals,
who happen to be actual lambs
who can see the life I see no more.

I am no longer a lamb of God,
but rather a lost animal.
And the only colours and flowers
I can seed and ripe
are the cardiac seeds
that I must tear apart
from the loving chest of the lambs.

Maybe… Maybe only that way…
I will recover my lost heart.



This poem was inspired on Christopher Raymundo Márquez’s murder at the hands of a deranged group of teenagers, allegedly playing the “kidnapping” game, whereas it was actually a cold blooded planned murder from the very beginning.
As one Mexican academic (golly, forgot his name…) said, we’re raising nowdays a generation of psychopaths, not only in Mexico, but around the world, by letting them enjoy fiestas bravas, violent video games like Call of Duty, watch junk TV shows without supervision…
People, we’re failing as adults, as educators, as humans as well. We’re failing, and it is showing on our children’s mindsets. We need to be more conscious and closer to our children’s inner world; who knows what will happen if this repeats again? In some years from now on, psychopathy might even become so normal it will gradually destroy the world…

In some years, the Two Thousands might as well be recognizable because of its lack of virtual humanity.

Please, people, if you’re a parent, take a moment to read Christopher’s case—all of the cases about children murderers—and think just for a moment if you’re teaching to your kid something beyond the “basics” of the individualistic bourgeois values. Something that might make them more than “successful” and “literate” people: see if you’re teaching them to be human.

Thanks for reading!


Five Natural Haikus

30 Sep

Although I cannot post articles as often as I want, I decided to translate some poems I’ve published in local magazines and share them all with you! In this occasion, for example, I will share you some haikus I published in a magazine called Paso del Río Grande del Norte, which may not ring a bell, surely, because it’s a Mexican magazine that hasn’t been beyond the frontier and Spain, so…

Anyways, I forgot the issue they were published on, so I translated all of these haikus from Spanish. Hope you can enjoy them!


My beautiful boy

of glittering golden locks

caressing me whole.



Most tender bald girl

tarnished by gray freckles,

never let me go.



Transparent rivers

always crash against my face

en route to nowhere.



A silvered sky

melting above our faces,

dripping its silver.



The tears of our soil

who’ll never be able to fly

and fall into the sky.


Thanks a bunch for reading!


17 Dec

There’s an unsatisfied emptiness inside.

Flying hole, whose darkness’ shadow can’t hide

even with a lit candle in hand.


I know you’re there.

I can hear your silence.

I know its boldness.

Yet I don’t know its name,

and in the end I believe it’s hunger,

yet I don’t know if it is a bull or a human male.


Who are you, emptiness?

Why do I fear you?

There you are…

Yes, yes. There you are. I see you without seeing you.

I know I am hollow.

I know you’re no saint.

But, why are you mean?

Why are you here to cause me pain?

What do you want?

What do you want, Lord?


You’re not hunger… Maybe gluttony, yes.

Or perhaps you’re the hunger of hunger.

So hollow I am, I suddenly miss the pain.

As you’re just there.

Simply and easily, you’re just there.

You’re no pain.

You’re strong, yet you don’t dare

to eat and kill me.

You’re just there.

Just there.

And although, you’re no pain to me,

it pains me to not know what do you mean.


Arms shake, legs shake.

Hollow fruitless plate.

Bullet-less gun.

Who are you? Why do you exist?

Am I your Universe? Are you my hole?

Do you want to turn me into food? To destroy the Universe?

Is that it?

You hunger for me?


I am salty.


I look inside.

I pierce my brain.

In this newborn crack, I walk the opposite way.

I know there’s a hole,

doing purely nothing,

distilling pure nothingness,

lying inside.

It won’t kill. It won’t live. It won’t follow me.

Just there. Just there, it is.

And I don’t know why.

I realize myself—

I become my own Verb—

and I detect in this poison,

who won’t kill me or let me drown on it,

that I am just hungry.

Or I am just hunger.

Something I might be. I don’t comprehend.


I see. I feel. I am.

I don’t follow the hole.

In this throne,


repenting from my sins,

I just realize the inside of me.

And I detect a thought,

so useless,

so low…


I eat. I fill. And yet this hunger won’t leave.

Ants. Ants, I have.

Biting ants,

biting my womb,

biting my belly,

biting my life.

Ants, children of mine. Orphaned from a father.

A father whose name is Thought.


I move without leaving.

I stay, walking.

The soul runs, the time follows.

And somehow, I am starving.


Stop it.

Go away. Go away. Go away. Go away. Go away. Go away. Go away. Go away. Go away. The ants are my children, from my chest.

But they’re opening me. They’re coming to life

Who gestated them?

Scum. You scum. Who called for you?

Scum. You scum. You unwanted scum.

They’re opening my chest…

They’re opening me, revealing me, stripping me, undressing me!

Help, help!

Hunger, hunger, hunger, hunger…!

Go away, go away, go away, o away, go away, go away…!


There’s an unsatisfied emptiness inside.

Flying hole, whose darkness’ shadow can’t hide

even with a lit candle in hand.

And yet, it is still there, palpitating, antagonizing my heart.

I don’t know if it is the running blood filling my arteries,

or the scum ants who stretch my sorrowful veins.



Daily Post Challenge: Haikus

26 Nov

As part of the Writing Challenge in The Daily Post, which I follow, I decided to participate in the weekly challenge by writing these haikus, as these days I’ve felt a bit poetic ever since I worked on a translation of a poem I sent to Alberto Patishtán, heh. Anyways, I wrote five according to the challenge. Hope you enjoy them!


A dark alleyway.

Two walls with some good distance.

A thread in the dark.



A gift to you, God.

Threads to replace the other ones.

They need to grow more.



My handbag with gold.

My stomach filled with salmon.

My soul, empty of love.



I see an ink weaver.

I see paper knot doodles.

I see a spiderweb.



Here’s a wooden horse.

I place my hands on this corpse.

Its heart’s on the woods.


…And yes, I am obsessed with threads.