Rómulo Pardo Urías escribe

Typing nothing

Here my long equality

deserves pleasant one thunder,

ashamed voices again, never

telling single words. I’m a hater

of time and life and air

because my broken tongue

disappoints you, attacks you,

blames you, once again,

when the sunset throw

kindly a thunder into my soul.

Where are the friends?

Where is the lovely solitude?

Nothing scape from people

never will be them

the last run against my head.

One single thinking

one single head,

my mental disorder

as a verbal fluctuant sorrow.

When do I follow the tense of present

or the shadow of solipsistic voices?

Nor my face or my mouth arise again

but I’m sure that we will be forgetfulness

at the end of the day, and no one will cry.

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