Sparks of blood, dark heat And litanies sung in a low voice, Decorate the insolent night, A magical jingle Flies through the throats Of...

The thick night, orphaned of diamond purples, Hoards the memories of children who draw The forgotten bright smiles That scattered on beds...

Yesterday I was reviewing an anthology of poems by Walt Whitman, the book published with the title Leaves of Grass. I was impressed by...

One morning, the prophet contemplated the moist caresses of the dew on the intricate branches of the lush grove that decorated the vast...

In the heat of August, Seville awakens in a haze of golden light, its proximity to Africa a source of both pride and discomfort. The...

Everything that has happened is a burden that, like Sisyphus, we drag until the end of our lives, a weight that is impossible to shed. I...

The prophet said to himself: I have tried again and again to understand what beats within me. I have rarely been able to catch a glimpse...