I asked the father Cristian in a comment if I pray. Another commentator, and from an unhealthy curiosity, want to know whether I pray or not. I'm not sure what you mean to pray. If prayer is talking with God, prayer, because my words are lost without answers, God does not answer. If prayer is talking to God, then I do not know if I pray. Maybe sometimes you talk to God, but I have not clear ...
There are things I have written that I do not know who they are. The other day I heard of a book on architecture, which was a strange phenomenon, that of the auction and details hidden to the human eye. An architect insisted on a shot in a dark corner of a room high ceilings, it was impossible to see from the ground. When the builders told him it was absurd that shot, because nobody else would, the architect replied that God does not see it. Juan Díez del Corral Perhaps we can clarify what the book was. In any case, what is certain is that I sometimes find myself trying to transcend, and for someone who I do not know who he is. Poetry helps me to try to glimpse what lies beyond the constraints of language, and perhaps at that moment what I want is the way to talk to God and how God appears in the words I say, they are words inhabited in their conmbinaciones I reveal a higher meaning. I said I was not going to publish my own poems. A Maurice copied him one in his blog, a very religious poem in the background. Perhaps a prayer for me. What I can not use the prayer is always, because I sound like a vacuum, as does the sexton old Verse León Felipe. As I decided to hide under, I copied one of my poems, I hope you do not laugh at me, there is nothing that makes one more vulnerable to the cynical to teach poetry. This poem I wrote many years ago while still living in my country town, and went on weekends to Razorfen we had, where my dog \u200b\u200bwas happy. Now everything is sold, and the dog died, but in those days, when walking alone with him and I was looking at the sky at night, sometimes I felt like God was there. Consider yourselves if this poem is basically a prayer or a wish of God. If it is true that prayer, these are my prayers.
The universe from the head of my dog \u200b\u200b
But if a man Would be alone, let him look at the stars.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
I do not know how many thousands of years I've been looking at the stars,
but I remember the first time I saw
had not yet invented the hours, weeks
had not appointed day
not even know the weather turns on itself and starts
without us
stops breathing with your lungs
leaving us in stone, air, heat, shrapnel
stars for the next big bang of the universe.
I do not know how many thousands of years I've been looking at the stars
I've forgotten their names, those with which
baptized when we decide that anything
can be locked in a word
dwell within our bodies.
I sit on the porch,
pat my dog, the two
tired of chasing through the woods
another sun that escapes us, and I see his ears
worry
tighten up and catch an evening breeze
whistling through the holes of the oaks
that skims the
Lunero the orange blossom and pushes through the dark
the croaking of frogs that inhabit
all puddles of the road. Mount
whole is drawn invisibly in the breeze
my dog \u200b\u200bwith his ears
notes.
I however do not see anything, just my memory
me back the memory of what a sun light
morning I wake up.
The little light that the sky is left
is drained by the stars.
Again I raise my eyes to them,
as used for thousands of years,
I wonder if my dog \u200b\u200bsees them,
and then entered his mind to watch the stars
came into his eyes and in that instant the universe is released
words
of ideas,
dimensions,
of
magnitudes that we
compressed to fit on our minds.
Mystery
becomes infinite and I can not see the stars.
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