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Poesía,
una palabra que florece en las piedras,
en el barracón de los esclavos,
en la esclavitud
de los que se besan
con negociaciones
sin saber de la superficie,
sin escuchar una canción de Pablo,
sin conocer a Silvio,
a Feliú,
a Aretha Franklin,
tu voz en mi pecho...
Poesía,
luego queda,
inevitablemente,
la esperanza
de besarte.
El resto,
qué importa.

¡Muchas gracias por tu visita!

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_{©Copyright 2026 Roswel Borges Castellanos. Todos los derechos reservados. Esta publicación fue parcialmente traducida con Google Translate.}

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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,
Feliú,
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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I invite you to visit the project DRIP - WITNESS NODE - BPUD

Support the witness and vote for TheBbhProject! Project carried out by @bradleyarrow

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Thank you very much for your visit!

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_{©Copyright 2026 Roswel Borges Castellanos. All rights reserved.This post was partially translated using Google Translate.}

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