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Poem
wish it were raining pots and lots,
  that when it rains or dark comes ,l leave;
because sometimes I do not want anyone to see me ..... 
I got used to living as a refugee .... 
I used to be in privacy ...

 and I got no be used to it that what is the opposite .... 
is discomfort and my comfort is to be accustomed 
to living with my castles and weapons and defenses,
 and walls and walls and that nothing prevents,

 me from being the, the strong and unalterable, 
what I did, and I am, and I love to be,
 and  I continue this life of being and being, 
what I am, and desire; Go ahead ... [...] 

with the noblesse time and the ruines in the desolate neighborhood 
where I do not know where nobody lives when I go out on the street
 I see myself inrouded by looks that are not eyes because there is never anyone in the streets,
 or makes it bear in mind that there come from the crevices 
of the chasms that exist in the crevices of the cracks 
abandoned houses, whether or not they say that old and old people live here,
 and there is nothing, and the green walks and square muds

 and the crustaceous herbs still leave the sides 
and are the look when I follow my steps until reaching the Avenue 
 
 in that gesture made my visit to the besieged bees
 of the prostrate Pharisees and cripples but all respect me 

and more promises that surround the whole labyrinth
 I've never seen anything like it, but I already knew it
 and I got and I am not used to it 
that when I go out, I realize that nothing is there and everything is there. 
on my side, 

but my heavenly paradise, lined with trees and gardens,
 and trees of lights and cracks and leafs of the trees, 
inviting me,
 to the freshness of corners and comings and goings,
 because the grove here is like a blanket of coats that moral and all the splendor of living is against the tide 

and of all say if it is not bad at all, 
and even my taste and my taste, 
incensible but fierce, 

arrogant but welcoming,
not sick but sanitary, 
otherwise would not be
 now and even now among the clouds, 
 write, what I write and between lines 
to say what else ... well I hate, ...joy!
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