If I have a best friend, he is the one who keeps my youth. He is the one who makes me feel younger and older forever. He is the one who makes me believe I can be a sinner or a saint at the same moment.

She was perfect. She had always been perfect. The follow principle of her life ; What you can ´t see, won´t hurt you.

I can do anything when I believe in something. And I believed in her.

At the old vilage, at the same hour, we talked about love in general. We were both kids. We talked about love as if it was the subject of an essay instead of real.

She said love was like jumping off the high dive. Or like almost getting drowned.

No, young lady! The truly love don´t play games. The entire love is never submitted by the casualities of despair, or even hate. The truly love don´t want slavers, bad seeds trying to argue with the society as if we were a distant peace of it.

Seize the day, young fellows. Says the remarkable teacher to his students.

Oh, captain, my captain! Who is your captain? Who drives your life as if you couldn´t have the control of it?

Do you know the reason I stopped that night? I asked her after years without listening to her voice, or feeling the energy of her not usual unspoken words, the visionary power of her silence.

It was not nobility. That is only what I told myself; We have all the time in the world.

She was naked. I could have possessed that perfect body right that moment. But something was stronger than me. Now I know, this thing was the power of my youth. The false true we are never loosing a chance to love and be loved in return.

The other wants my silence. He can not forbidd me to write poetry or make fantasies instead of disgusted conversation pieces.

The first time I saw that man, that God named Ilusion, I knew something was about to be taken from us.

I said to myself; You only get a couple of moments that determine your life. Sometimes only one. Than , it is gone forever.

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Five centuries of poetry.

Rip it out if you can not handle it in your hands. Keep ripping gentleman. Otherwise, face the battles, face the wars. The casualites can be your heart and soul burning in hell.

Words can change the world, but measuring poetry is a terrible mistake.

She tried to measure her love through numbers. Crazyness on numbers? Desires on numbers?

The devil on his own explained her we do not write or read poetry because it is cute. But for the simple reason we are a human race, though, we are filled with passion.

They weren´t a greek organization. They were romantics. With these eyes the earth mother will be feeded some how, maybe in a near future, I could feel the presence of Byron and Whitman in that indian cave. They were in every poetry dripped from their tongues.

Every single night after the sun had disappeared , and the moon was the unique crucified fellow of the boys, poetry was about to drip from their tongues. Gods have been created. Women danced to the sound of the calm breeze. How was all that possible? How the young fellows had made that single moment become magic?

The boys with a genuine inteligence and sensibility had discovered the marrow of life when their souls were kept in contact with the woods. They were finally living as birds flying the highest they could. They were alive. For the first time, they could see how brief would be their existence. They could see behind men there is a desperate hunting for eternity.

All of us, food to feed the worms.