Sí, sé que nadie, quizás, se esperaba que escribiese en inglés. Es un capricho mío hacerlo. El inglés, para mí, es un lenguaje muy espléndido para escribir poesía, sin desprestigiar mi lenguaje materno, el español. Esta vez, deseo compartir algo muy personal; es un secreto que a la vez no lo es.
I am the creation of a lie.
I lived a dream of hundred smiles.
So I became the poet of these times.
So you became the grey lady of mine.
The passion and obsession in this black symphony,
She’s dancing over the tears of the novel.
Dancing and crying the soul out, because her vanity.
She is the mask of this; she was the muse of the poet.
Doubt of the betrayal, doubt of what means this act.
It’s like a nightmare of a wolf haunting the darkness.
Still dancing like a queen over those tears, she will fall.
With dark feathers, she seduces the poet’s lines.
I lived the best moment of my novel drama.
I am this who you read because the ballerina’s passion.
Yes, a character of this karma!
Yes, the writer of her devotion!
I cried the dead of the beauty swan after the winter.
So I walked the Limbo for going to the path of pain.
Meanwhile, she dances in the glassed theater…
Awake from love, below her acid rain.
Tell me why you created this tragedy of a deadly Romeo,
Or a paper Juliet. Tell me if the sun will eat my sleep, again.
My memories embrace my body in this moment,
Since you took my hand in this forever trail of love.
I still hearing the sound of your silence,
Because the symphony of ours was crushed by your need.
Is this a message from my destiny essence?
Is this a punishment to the heartbroken writer?
I have no words…
I have no breath to say something…
I surrender to the apocalypse of my heart;
To recognize you stole my promise.
You will always be the reference of my art.
As I’ll be the name of your regret.
You’ll always be a broken muse of my best.
As I’ll be the same who loved you, muse.
Fly through the darkness of your life, black swan.
Towards the symphony gets more nostalgic.
I will remember the lies of these truths of mine,
To fly to other dreamed hill promised by both like old times…
– Martes 10/05/11. Escrito por Alejandro Viloria.