Felipe Antonio Santorelli

Este es un intento de hacer poesía en la lengua de los anglos, piedad...

This is a pencil, that is a pen.
This is a table, that is a desk.
This is my heart, that is my dream.
This is my soul, that was my scream.

That is my teacher, this is my bag,
that is my hope, that was my cry.
Here in the classroom, I'm on the sky
I'm far far away from this awful path.

This is my book, ¡that was my thought!
this is my notebook, that was my poetry,
this is my fault, that is your pain
too far already from my big mouth,
too near yet, near to my brain.

So,
let us move away
let's be really free
riding a splendid horse over cottoned clouds,
let's escape from sadness
by travelling through hope
just you and me, only you and me;
over the other side of the moon.

Because home is just that place
where your heart wishes to be.








Pardon me Shakespeare, Whitman, Frost, Poe, and all English poets,
for destroing your beautiful language.