PoesĂa,
una palabra que florece en las piedras,
en el barracĂłn de los esclavos,
en la esclavitud
de los que se besan
con negociaciones
sin saber de la superficie,
sin escuchar una canciĂłn de Pablo,
sin conocer a Silvio,
a FeliĂș,
a Aretha Franklin,
tu voz en mi pecho...
PoesĂa,
luego queda,
inevitablemente,
la esperanza
de besarte.
El resto,
qué importa.
ÂĄMuchas gracias por tu visita!
©Copyright 2026 Roswel Borges Castellanos. Todos los derechos reservados.
Poetry,
a word that blossoms in the stones,
in the slave quarters,
in the slavery
of those who kiss
with negotiations
without knowing the surface,
without hearing a song by Pablo,
without knowing Silvio,
FeliĂș,
Aretha Franklin,
your voice in my chest...
Poetry,
then there remains,
inevitably,
the hope
of kissing you.
The rest,
what does it matter.
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