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Writing fiction isn’t an easy process at all, but writing poetry is like being really naked in front of the crowd. Opening yourself up to strangers and expose to the world your very own personal abyss requires courage, being indifferent to vulnerability and a huge dose of stupidity.

In the 80’ and 90’ for a series of motives that now escape me completely I did get the chance of publishing three poetry collections. They were called: Attempts, Building Castles and The Art of the When.

I thought I would put one of my poems here… something about death or love or about the way the afternoon sun hits the orchard wall and paints it a delicate tone of orange. A color close to blood, but also close to the light of dawn.

Then I woke up. I can be many things, but I’m not a moron. You won’t be able to read anything. Just please believe that my poetry comes from pain and spiritual torment, and be done with it.

That’s it.