RISE FROM THE EARTH

Divine Mother, majestic land in which we are all born,
forget our karma,
sparkles of radiant lives,
you, divine light brighter than the sun,
golden water.
Where the petals open our spring,
rise from the end of the black age.
Magnify the heart,
amplify love,
becomes birth again.
Mother of us all,
blue flame of the sky,
defeat the color of Death.
Open your roses,
stretch out your hands,
scatter your heart inside the branches,
fruit be given to each weary breath.
Lady of the golden earth
walk with your feet
over the terrible devils and kill them all.

I BECAME WIND










I feel the movement of the wind, it creeps between my fingers, transforms my blue dress making it sway like sea water. melancholy hits me, I close my eyes and breathe distant air. melancholy of places never seen before, of lights and colors; I feel them under my skin without ever having lived them. the murmur of the wind among the leaves becomes more intense, it cradles my faded memories. I feel consumed. - but who am I? a wrapper. an empty, jagged shell. I do not know. I don't know who I am. a muffled melody, I barely feel it and my body becomes stone. and within that body of stone the pain that was awakens. and I feel it squeeze my breath, hold it, scratch it, and my chest burns, torn and wants to explode, but it doesn't. it was, but it is no longer. I open my eyes, the sky clears up, I feel it calling me. there is a perfume, when it is no longer night, but it is not yet morning. there is a tangible scent that the wind carries with it and in silence I I hear peace. and in the stillness of that juncture which is no longer night, but not yet morning, the words of the wind fly free. the air is crisp, the grass wet, the trees sway and I seem to hear them talking. I seem to see them dance. the wind is becoming, it is change. the wind blows, while the sun rises on the horizon, brash, alive, passionate. it blows hard enough to lift my feet off the ground. and while the world still sleeps I fly over thoughts, dreams, I fly light like a butterfly towards the sky. I become of wind.

I WAS ON THE GROUND

The last trance was the last trance the one in which she had danced in the rain and in the wind. The storm was out. The storm was inside and the monster had water eyes and thunder arms. She had danced in the intercourse with the ferocious beast, the killer baby, a ferocious feline, a very fast condor had taken her and carried her up. All this and the rest, dispersed, in the raindrops. I had seen and said “follow me” and she had followed the force of the storm. No force was too strong for the challenge, no force was too strong for her liquid pleasure. Following the animal, into the forest, scrolling along the paths where you could not walk. The sound of the night was coming. She told him “save me” and he didn’t answer and hid. The beast came out instead and she took it in her hands and every vein was red and throbbing. She stood looking at him so full of pulsating veins and moving at the touch of his mouth. He told her “get out of me” and he didn’t but he flew up and fell on her and stayed on her back until the wings unfolded well. The wings were made of copper and carried energy. A blackout of harmonic kilowatts entered his ribcage. She stood still, let the transformation begin, what would become of her shell was not given to him to know. He wove heavier alloys on the outside of the wings, but platinum was his single-celled heart. He said “wait”. She felt the metal enter her ribs, enter her bones, come to life and breathe like a second soul. She remained dead. She remained dead. She remained dead. Lying in iron, in metal, in the world of her demon. He remained. It folded its wings and pierced the trees, the rocks, the waterfalls, the lights, the shadows. Everything stood in the way of his new wingspan. Everything was a hindrance to his body. He felt the heavy steel in his arteries. He couldn’t breathe. He told him “kiss me, give me air, I’ll suffocate”. He joined his thin hands and disappeared into the thunder. Anger took her. He threw himself away. It destroyed everything in its path. He pierced the storm itself and crashed into a mountain hidden by the fury of the hurricane. The wings were so heavy. The lungs were struggling. Steel was in every muscle. She got up. Moving his head he managed to swallow some air. He had re-entered her chest. He was breathing now. His demon had regained strength. He had it back. It covered her vital organs. He made her die to make her live better. His mind was ready. The crystals were reforming and in a few hours he would break all seals of piety and humanity. He shouted “leave me!” but he was more inward than ever. It had all its strength, it had its wings. He threw her across the seas like a bullet and she crossed the waves. It was ready. She had returned. The energy passed through her but the strength did not scare her. He closed his eyes. He saw her white eyes in her darkness. Who was? Who are you? Churches. Metal does not melt. The crystals flip over. Polarity swap places. And she became something else. She lay on the asphalt, dust in her mouth, as he screamed obscenities. She was just a victim and was crying. He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t escape. He stayed on the asphalt and died inside himself.

WHY AMLETA CREATES SOMETHING

Art is his need. An instinctive need to create. An instinctive need to be and communicate one’s being to others. Affirming its existence with the creative act is the only way for Amleta to live. Feeling such a force within oneself, an energy, an immense explosion, a storm that never settles down. A sea that is always stormy to its depths. Being a river in flood, dangerous for others, not accustomed to strong liquid currents, but a natural and splendid element for her. Art is its power. The power to create from nothing. To give life to what has never existed, which has never been seen, which has never been read. A sublime, divine, most envied power. Art feeds on souls. Art is insatiable, it is its fierce demon, and it has walked this path all its life looking for an escape. But you never get rid of art because only art makes it free and alive. It is like a second skin and if you take it off you become skinned and you cannot live anymore. Amleta has art in every cell, like a deadly virus, which never becomes a disease but which accompanies it throughout its life as a faithful travel companion. Art grinds the flesh, the spirit, the whole life. He raises it in the highest sky, being able to see without eyes, hear without ears, draw without using his fingers; and then makes it descend into the most terrible depths of the human abyss. Art is a miracle of life and death. Whoever possesses the gift is condemned to a parallel life. Amleta goes in and out as if from a window. She enters and exits herself, feeds herself to the pigs, gives her vital breath, remains in pieces and then begins again. Who would ever want such a life? Yet many envy it and do not know what it means to have the fire of inspiration that consumes! Art is its condemnation. She didn’t choose to start drawing, then painting, writing and playing at the same time. A dark force took his hands, and guided his dark energy. He was thus able to empty the pain he felt while living and to enclose it within his creations. Nothing remains of that period: everything burned. Unfortunately, something was saved from his subsequent dark periods, still not gone and up in smoke. Hamlet was born on a cursed island, in a sick country, and soon she got rid of her life and the pain took her far away, where she continued to suffer and create, create and destroy, herself, paintings, installations, plays, notebooks, sculptures, … Amleta creates and destroys what he creates. Hamlet is and is not at the same time. He yearns for this perennial creation and has tried several times to free himself from his prison without success. This gift, this power, this torment of colors and words, is the nectar of his days. Everything else is just a bitter side dish.

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