Poesia [in english, français, italiano,português] (+30 textos)


                                      Forever rain and other poems...
                                          (2009 - 2012)              
               Forever Rain
    Whenever it rains in our nightmares
     as city of Blade Runner .
     Do not dream of electric sheep
     just beautiful and deserted beaches
Pray for my darkness
Ill and not blessed.
I was born in the darkness.
I will come back in the darkness.
Pray for me
and that your light
impregnates my life
and my way.
Pray for me
now that I give back in the darkness
I will remember your light.
It will be my best way.
                                             Cinders of december
                                             Give back the home
                                             all creatures of the world
                                             Tell me…how you have burned your way?
                                             You pick up the ashes
                                              and you don’t want to aim
                                              for sweet and wonderful fate.
                                              Is more late?
                                              You pick up the ashes we
                                              the beaus of sweet and wonderful
                                             life, will ever not be.
                                            They come back in the home
                                            all the crowd of the world
                                            loaded of illusions and also lies.
                                            But there will be people without home
                                            drowned in dark ocean
                                            and a life shipwrecks on the high seas.
                                            Why do you cry?
                                            If you can come back at home…
                                            But there are empty houses without anybody
                                            Say me…how you have burned your way?
                                            You pick up the ashes 
                                            the cinders of december and remain me.
                                            We will share the cinders   
                                            another cold december
                                           dreaming with a new life
                                           and with a new way.
                                           You pick up the ashes
                                           of another december…
                                           Please you don’t cry
                                           they say that it’s the most cheerful night     
                                           but the emptiness gobbles down for me
                                                until the morning.

                                        You pick up the cinders of december
                                        Please stand by me
                                       We will dream together one another life
                                       Maybe another fate.                         
                                       Oh cinders of december!
                                       Cinders of my way…
                                       I feel how every night they burn      
                                       and go me until the morning.
                                       Oh cinders of december!
                                    Black butterflies
                                    Lagoons in my head.
                                    I search the light in the middle of the forest.
                                    In November already is here.
                                    The autumn hideout slowly.
                                    Dark thoughts stroll for my head
                                    like black butterflies  
                                    that are wanted to escape
                                    of a world without flowers
                                    without illusions.
                                   Black butterflies fly to my head.
                                   They search  the light in the middle of the forest.
                     Alice’s mirrors
                      Cross the mirror
                          and look the wonders.
                          Cross the distance
                          of real life and dreaming life.
                          If I could be cross the mirror
                          and don’t see horrors
                          If I could be see just only
                          panoramic beuty views,
                          tender lifes,
                          minutes of pretty lights
                          in our lifes.
                                         Forgiven roses in a book...
In your bed...
forgotten roses,
roses forgiven in a book.

In your mind
it rains books
with beautiful roses
and with incredible stories.

Oh beutiful roses!
Oh Bleeding roses
of the last days...

Today only they are ashes of a story.
Today only they are fragments of our memory
Mucha's Goddess
Where do you come Goddess
with your dazzling beauty
a more dreamlike than real?
Where do you come Goddess
a world of fairies
ethereal and friendly
where everything is unattainable
and where everything is so unreal ...
Daughters of Nature.
Muses beyond.
Goddesses Mucha
Yesterday, today and 150 years ago.

Night Smoke
velvet gloves.
Goddess of dreams
How many have fallen for you?
The time will never forget
your perfume.

                                                    LONDON RIVER
                                                      Lost souls
middle of the Thames
Souls upset
middle of the Thames
Oh London River
illuminates my life back!
Hearts beaten
a tragedy
Children who no longer
and only ashes.
Oh London River
illuminates my life back!
In a world of beasts
our hearts are weak.
Gimme tenderness
now that there are differences.
Oh London River
illuminates my life back!

                              Burning bridges
                           Crossing roads
I feel that I left behind
many storage
and so much misery!

Crossing bridges
I'm afraid to look back
forget who it was
forget who I am.

But I feel that I can follow:
burning bridges
burning bridges!
                                ALL THE FRUITS OF SUMMER

                                                              The air is dry

                                                                 gold fields

long days

not again ...

Do not feel the distance

the crying of a child?

Come the cold

dreamed fields

tasty fruit

not again

as the innocent smile

of a child.

If I could taste

All the fruits of summer

Biting the peach

and I returned all that warmth

a gentle breeze

a dream of late summer.

Pear, watermelon, cantaloupe

peach, plum and smell

thousand ripe blackberries

as a sophisticated treat.

These memories are fleeting

are the fruits of summer ...

Oh all the fruits of summer ...

A world that was lost

and now it seems a story of late summer.

Pretty horses
Oh, Pretty horses!
In my mind…you’re happy.
In my dreams…you’re happy.
Horses riding to sky
Crossing gold field in august.
If I could be a horse, free horse
Running in wild beach
in a midle august.
Oh, Pretty horses!
In your mind…I’m happy.
In your dreams…I’m happy.
Wild horses in your mind.
Wild horses in my mind.
Riding to sunset sky
in evening in midle august.
Oh Pretty horses!
Lost memories of my world.
Lost memories of your world.
Lost memories of our world.

Empty pockets
with sand
on days ,
as a clock sand
and precise ...
And these days
cross a gold field
full of light 
to night,not look back
not feel the fear
to cross and would flee away
do not know why;
escape a world that did not want;
find a perfume
you captive,
feel alive
nothing without you Domain
as a slave
without poisons
false paths without
only one ways
that make us feel comfortable
and not strangers.

      Port of roses

In a midle of the lake
in a other times
I remember your bikes
I remember other times;
in a midle of the spring
in this lake
You and me ate cakes
and felt the smell of the park...
You and me felt
thousand roses,
our port of roses.
Oh Port of roses
thousand boats
destiny high seas
with our coats
and with our dreams.

In a midle of the lake
in a other times
I remember your bikes
I remember your dreams.
I remember one port
thousand of destinations
thousand of roses.

                                                    NEW POEMS 2013
                                                 Banjo's men (in weekend)
Male gray weekday
man by his surly
man who does not speak much
man nobody knows why
one day he picked up a banjo
to tell a thousand stories
for those who do not listen.

Oh man the banjo
expected by the weekend
nothing more important than you
minutes to complete
of that dirty bar
sad and lonely ...
You are your Soul!
Oh banjo's men!
All await your weekend.
Gray man.
Male shy.
Male dark.
Everyone was surprised
When the weekend.
                                                            House of mirrors
 Oh, Alice, you who sticks through the mirror
There are so many doors and windows!
Say what is the best
to escape from this world of rush
and seek a peaceful and joyful way!

Destiny of my soul
The old days
like a leaf
the bottom of the lake.
Find it impossible
a distant memory ...
Oh destiny of my soul!
I have done that in those days:
Sunday dreaming of sunshine
and Lake crowded
strolling calmly ...
What little we care about wasting time!
The beautiful days
and now the lake is frozen
and more than one has been stifled ...
If I could retrieve those days
where there were no deaths
or ghosts.
Oh destiny of my soul!
I have done that in those days?
The landscapes change
thousand souls are filled with grief and decadent.
River Dance
Not hear the sound of the river?
We do not know where it leads ...
We've forgotten your warmth
the land that gave us
thousand thousand fruit motifs
dance to celebrate
Nobody walks near the river
They say back to the origins
when the seasons
had reasons to party
by sunny days,
harvest and storm.
Not hear the sound of the river?
Four young men planted their orchards
They say that all is not dead
There are fresh fruit market domincals
organically grown
which brings us back to earth.
Not hear the sound of the river?
Not hear the sound of the earth?
Back to origins?
The dance of the ancients.


                                         Fleurs en septembre
                                                (2009 - 2012)
Fleurs en Septembre
fleurs en Septembre
ils respirent le souffle chaud
Frost sera bientôt
dans le désert
                            La fée verte des matins…
                           Celle-ci est la fée de la vie.
                           La fée verte.
                           Celle-ci est la porte des rêves.
                           Rêver il ne fait pas mal
                           ils disent les poètes…
                           Les matins sont durs
                           ils disent les athlètes…
                           et les versos son le poison
                           de beaucoup de poètes.
                           Oh fée verte des matins.
                           Réveille-moi avant que le poison   
                                    ne me meure.

                                            Tempêtes de gel
                                             Petite enfer  
                                             de fleurs sauvages
                                             piquants au front
                                             blessées ouvertes…
                                             Chemins gelés
                                             vers un avenir obscur.   
                                             Héros antarctiques
                                             vers un immense mur
                                             de glace énorme
                                             au milieu de l’océan
                                             de doutes et peurs…
                                             Il faut suivre en avant!
                                             Il y a des tempêtes de terre glaise.
                                             Il y a des tempêtes de gel.                                               
                                             Il y a une petite lumière
                                                 au fond de l’univers.

                                     Oiseaux de la nuit
                                     Oiseaux de la nuit
                                     que vous rêvez traverser des frontières
                                     S`il était possible de voler  
                                    doucement entre les crêtes…
                                    Oiseaux de la nuit
                                    que vous rêvez traverser des frontières
                                    S’il était possible de voler
                                    sans brouillard  ni peine
                                    sans pluie ni nuit
                                    seulement un instant
                                    avec la lumière ténue du matin…
                                    Vous seriez hereux
                                    Oh oiseaux de la nuit!

                                   Mais le rêves sont rêves                                        
                                   I seulement vous pouvez goûter        
                                   le crépuscule du matin.
                                   Le beau crépuscule
                                   qui’l sépare tant de vies
                                   et tant de destins.

Tous les matins du monde ...
Je ne sais pas qui je suis
nous ne savons plus qui nous sommes.
Nous ne sommes que des traces de non-retour.

Tous les matins du monde ...
Les vagues de la mer
couvert de l'obturateur
Nous avons cherché une maison
la mélodie fragile d'un monde agonisant.

Tous les matins du monde ...
J'entends ta mer ...
Votre violoncelle a été
tandis que le soleil nous caresse.

Mais un jour le ciel est devenu noir
et vous avez décidé de ne pas jouer.
Le matin, le père de routine
s'est brisé en un instant.

Mais un jour tu t'en vas
et j'ai commencé à se noyer.
Je peux encore entendre la belle mélodie tous les matins
sentent imprègne chaque instant.

Je ne comprends pas comment vous fuir
Je n'aime pas ce que vous préférez en laissant la mer ...
Le violoncelle est un vieux bateau abandonné
ressemble à un bateau cassé.
Peut-être que c'est pourquoi j'ai décidé de brûler
votre navire abandonné.
Ses cendres sauvé
votre note du matin.

Je me lève le matin
de vous voir là-bas et continue de jouer
est un spectre qui me dérange
et m'acarona temps en temps.

Tous les matins du monde
Chaque matin, la mer
Recherche votre monde
milieu de mes rêves
Je me sens si petite
vous souvenir de votre monde
noyés au milieu de vos notes
Mon épave
nos morts.

(Pris à un carrefour) de l'aéroport passages à niveau en une nuit de Noël

Au milieu de l'une des nombreuses façons,
          milieu d'une intersection d'un aéroport
les hommes jeunes et vieux
             Les femmes consoler les enfants
                     essayer d'oublier qu'ils sont pris au piège
pour les malchanceux
vivant à l'extérieur de la maison
            et ne pas se sentir réconfort
           aspirait à un câlin.
   Et au milieu de la douleur
          un homme chante:
"Oh, je suis l'amour
Je suis l'enfant
Je suis juste un voyageur
Aujourd'hui, nous chanter une chanson;
Si je pouvais le confort tout votre coeur
neige et le vide ...

Je suis juste une étoile pour Noël
aujourd'hui l'aéroport au milieu de ce froid
veut croire que le monde peut être meilleur.
Je suis juste une chanson:
ce soir, part
comme un petit trésor
que notre petit trésor. "


LE MONDE, LES ENFANTS et une île sauvage

Le monde
les enfants
qui rêvent
un moment
doux sourire
certains jouent à l'extérieur
le sort cruel
de nombreuses vies
et pour eux la vie est une vague
où tout est tactile, spontané et aimable.
Il ya des enfants qui ne sourient pas
ni désirs ni nourriture ou destinations.
La vie est un esprit sauvage
peut changer en un instant les vagues.

Le monde
les enfants
un moment
un souffle de vie
Oh, la vie, la vie et le monde
bonheur et tout un ensemble de mots
pourquoi parfois nous avons du son à distance
comme une île sauvage?
Poèmes inédits 2013
Chemins de fer
qui mènera
un millier de vies
pas vivre,
Pourquoi vous tromper
chaque étape
recherche et ne savent pas
le voyage de droite.
Attendez le bip
des chemins de fer
train routier.

Les heures impossibles
bon ami
sont les moments où tout était possible?
bon ami
Pourquoi il suffit de penser que le monde
Il ya un certain nombre d'heures
où tout est possible?
bon ami
Pourquoi ne pas oublier les heures impossible?

Quand il n'y a pas de temps à sourire
                                             Quand il n'y a pas de temps pour demain ...
                                             Nous croyons que tout serait intact:
                                             Nous sommes ce que nous sommes devenus
                                             à chaque instant ...
                                             Nous avons oublié ...
                                             Ce moment de se sentir libre
                                             Ce sentiment instantané grande
                                             Ce moment de gloire
                                             Ce voyage que nous ayons prise.

                                              L'inventaire des heures impossibles
                                              est un inventaire final.
                                         IN ILLO TEMPORE
                                                (2010 - 2012)
A quel tempo
Come un bambino
Vicino a un lago
Vicino a un fiume ...
Tutto è stato facile
Tutto è stato più facile.
Kite Runner
Barche in acqua
Sognare insieme
tutti i bambini
una grande destinazione.
A quel tempo
Tutto era una sfida.
Ora è un pugnale
inchiodato l'ombelico.
Tornò al lago
in un freddo inverno.
Non ci sono gli aquiloni o barche.
Ma ho ancora il sogno di quel bambino.
A quel tempo ...
Quel versetto semplice
Quel versetto così bella
Quel versetto finora
Quel versetto come tag
Quel versetto così crudele
E così semplice ...

Non è vero
quella sera
ci rende più fragile

Non è vero
quella notte
dimenticare i desideri

Non è vero
che è più veloce
viene prima la felicità.

Guardare il tramonto
e tutti i tuoi sogni ...
Osservate come cadere
un altro inverno
a camminare in primavera
inaspettato come una cellula
coperto da nuvole di tempesta.

Non è vero
che ci dimentichiamo i sogni
E quando scende la sera
e le facce sembrano stanco
corpi e brevi flessibile
e quando si guarda all'infinito
come il giorno finisce ...

Non è vero
che noi siamo più fragili
o anche più
o più fori;
mentre il mondo affonda
mentre il nostro piccolo mondo s'enfosa
ci sentiamo più liberi
e volatile.

                                                                         Pousadas (2010)

Todos os homens
procurar uma Pousada
onde ficar lá para sempre
apenas um sentimento
o murmúrio das ondas.
Todos os homens
procurar uma Pousada
onde você pode respirar facilmente
durante um longo dia
sentido apenas por alguns instantes
o murmúrio das ondas.
Todos os homens
procurar uma Pousada
Ithaca perdidos na
como um sonho Island
como utopia perdida
que por alguns dias
só pode sentir
                 o ritmo das ondas.

                    Novas palavras 2013
                                                    Porto triste (carta para o Brasil)
                                                                                                  a Jordi A., in memoriam
                                                                           Bom companheiro de viagem!
                                                                           Obrigado companheiro!
                                                                           Por que esquecemos os sonhos
                                                                           como devorar os anos?
             Carta para o Brasil:                                  
                                  Ventos tristes vêm do sul
Alguém me disse que há
mas no meu mundinho
Vejo que ainda nesse aeroporto
caminho de seu mundo e sonhos.
Ventos tristes vêm do sul
você vai ser feliz
e encontrar uma praia onde
Por favor, fique para sempre
seu pequeno paraíso.                                 

                                 E alguém me disse isso
você vai ser feliz
meio de pousadas
sempre o seu sonho
foi o Brasil.                                

                                 Meu amigo, por tão bom,
Eu sou apenas                                

                                 Eu me pergunto todos os momentos
onde eu enterrei meus sonhos
apenas quando ela era uma estudante.
Ele sonhava em ser um poeta e histórias publicadas ...

                                 Agora eu não sei o que o meu sonho ...
Você faria se você estava certo!
Eu encontrei muitos mortos
e chuva repentina
Chupei a energia das pessoas
e alguns roubado o coração;
e agora eu recebo estes ventos
Seu fim súbito
Eu não podia deixar uma lágrima
por alguém que lutou
o sonho possível ...

                                 E alguém me disse isso
você vai ser feliz
meio de pousadas
sempre o seu sonho
foi o Brasil.
                                       E por outro lado do oceano
                                         vôce imaginare
 uma pousada:
Bom companheiro de viagem!
Obrigado parceiro!
Por que nos esquecemos os sonhos
como devorar os anos?

 Haig de confessar que el mèrit d'aquests textos no és només meu, és també del diccionari i del traductor de google i del traductor del gencat. El que faig és: l'escric en català i l'intento traduir a un altre idioma amb l'ajuda d'un diccionari o d'un traductor o també en faig un esquema amb quatre paraules amb un altre idioma i ajudat d'altres eines (diccionari, google, etc) l'intento confeccionar i comprovar si realment sona bé. Simplement és un joc, és un experiment i n'estic content del resultat.
Reconec que jugar amb les paraules és un manera d'aprendre només una mica un altre idioma i si a més en surt algún text decent, doncs endavant!

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