I wrote, when this poetry was published:
This poetic collection is dedicated to the mother. To our departed mother, to the mother who stood beside us like a shadow, to the mother who sleeps in our dreams, and traverses the corridors of our souls carrying the memories of tender age.
"Secret poetry, mystical, poetry of the pain of the body, which aspires to abolish time and death, to touch the world so far untouched and unproven, with these words and with these chants that "make the abyss bloom." Jacques Lacarrière, from the collection's preface. Mystique Passage.
View towards the Unspoken
I chose to cut piece by piece
The death that is rightfully mine
Piece by piece the eternity
So I can send him a sign
I can't have these words, tell him
containing the desert
I prefer raw pieces of the desert
That is rightfully mine
One on top of the other to set up my story
raw scream of matter
To contain, tell him
His last weeping
Midnight is ready for some time
Full of Junes and illegible touches
Scent of home on a winter's day
With the angel behind the icon
The last movement of the hand slow
Its last solitude as
It is wrapped in the storm
An unbearable touch
As from a dead thunderbolt
Where are you going? Where will you go now?
The body bends and
bends like a prow
Like a thalassa stasimon
And the glance from a hail
That abolishes distances.
From the poetry, View towards the Unspoken, 1998