poems by Juan C. Tajes

The fruit Mother drunk from Orient’sthroat of black soundslaugh with her broken voiceher wounded gazelle eyesher black-winged manebetween her hands shells ruby fire shining in the sunthe morning is the silence of the fliesI learned from her that peoplehave the soul passion redas a pomegranate heartunder the shell they gatherthe sweet voice of singingin her words. The man who calculated Wind […]
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