Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

It may be but it’s not true Sweet, sweet man you turn on the light and leave, torn clouds bring fresh memories, and you so poor             / inscrutable, dumped on the breast of fire. Your wife wants to set herself ablaze, while a timid bush uncovers your essence. It is the door through which you breathe the odor that crowds bands of beast. Poor boy        stopped in your tracks             / by the hallucinating blow of       I can’t. Death never insinuated itself to you more than dust. It stood like a stone in your way, while you gathered a cluster of open, bleeding, dismembered guilt in the faint-hearted act of resting             / under the tender stupor of laurels. No, you never were, not in the slightest, the wings the lavish dreams of broken hymen. You did not feel like grazing and autumn was a blurred city in shadows             / almost limpid, a rotten pond bursting the grenade you carry wedged between you

To Omar - After years of not knowing where you are You are the nothingness of a transparent mane, an empty groove, a torn breath. Oblivion and the void of sleep are what you gain from fate. Winter nests inside you dejected like lost bird.