Silver Threads at Christmas

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"My birthplace was old, cold, its walls claimed some paint hands, wept inside when it rained, dark and dazzled when the sun came up. My birthplace was full of nooks and crannies, but I had a large window where every night from my cot I saw the moon, and every new amanacer greeted me by the sun.

First Memories. Incarnation.

Because of the coronavirus some writings from December were forgotten, the Christmas impressions, purposes and annual wishes were crushed against the images of Wuhan, wrinkled with the flu fever of February, and petrified with the state of alert that we have all suffered, and now that it seems that we are going towards the new normalities, it is the right time to share a little piece of my memories.

Now we have to learn to live by forgetting many customs, it is time to weigh the good and the bad of yesteryear, I believe that humanity is prepared for change for the better, the old customs when they do not lead us to totalitarianism, lead us to war, and war only benefits those who do not suffer, the powerful of the planet.

2020 will remain in the ephemeris of time as the year of the coronavirus, and like the year the United States regained its sanity and placed a president with a mental health certificate in The White House. Hope is the last thing that is lost, we must think that we will defeat the virus and that among all of us we will manage to rise from the health crossroads.

Dos lágrimas furtivas,
iluminan mi casa en navidad,
dos piedras cautivas,
del sentimiento y de la verdad.

Dance of the dead,
dread head and spread, 
thread lead with bread,
early  read in tread. 

Poorly inside in the wrong,
sparsely free far of prong,
hurl to watch the long,
nearly never is very strong.

Trance in the plead,
sweat said and threat,
stead unwed and head,
fairly unbred in the dead.

Christmas in the song,
passion is my Mahjong,
richness is of oblong,
delusion in your bong.

Two furtive tears,
illuminate house at Christmas,
two captive stones,
of feeling and of truth.

Silver Threads at Christmas.

The magic of Christmas is tried to nullify the bitter people, it is normal for Christmas to feel sadness, the date indicated always forces us to think, and as we go back in time sadness engulfs us, but also happiness, there are always many Christmases between memories, black, red, thorns and white as snow, and between Christmas so many comes Christmas in Shangrila , magical and with my friends.

It is January, spring will come in the blink of an eye, after the summer again autumn, and after November with a new president in the United States Christmas will come again, with his nostalgia, with his joys and with his sorrows, Cést la Vie, this one never stops.

"There was a time when people could embrace themselves in the street, a time when you could drink the water from a public fountain sucking the tap, a time when we saw people as human beings and not as a source of contagion, there was a much safer time in dode you could bathe in a river in the company of your soul , and sunbathing without caution"

First Memories. Reincarnation.

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