Column: Let me tell you ...
By Sergio M. González Trejo.
A book-ship, which sailed from the Gulf of Mexico to the black sea in Romania, in a verse ... came to browse the site office, with other partners (business consulting, agency and professional legal services: Calle Francisco Javier Mina No. 4) in the heart of our city, conquering the oceans, Piélagos, puddles ... when readers poachers, in a literary adventure that captures those who appreciate such a canopy of inspiration, the women involved in the compilation of Martha Elsa Durazzo, where work, "would deal with sprites and buccaneer." Soon we could try this test on that book, if it were not on pages 27 to 34 for acayuqueñas writers, María Elena Cervantes Baruch Espinosa Graciela Fonseca, authors with Ingrid Lemus Rios (sanjuaneña neighbor of us) of separate stanzas or fragments, without prejudice or impairment of recognizing that the text on your pages compositions collected in different ways, with poetic musicality. Topics, depth, treatment of the word beautiful, metaphors ... pristine clarity in communication and Beauty anniversary. Nymph, nymph or sylph, muse is missing, or the breath, everything is relative, how important are the results ... I would say the author, writer, promoter and journalist: "The journey culminates in a literary treasure, which holds Sergio Trejo in their hands. " Baruch Professor Maria Elena Fonseca, yet a path full of honors at competitions, meetings, workshops, reading, "floral games" and a first place in "Letters to the heart" in 2009, gives us in this compilation is an example of what keeps it in his chest as a poet ... "Doing lines is thinking of you expected an orgasmic symphony, is to hold space without time, is upset the sky in the distance because that night in our moons pyramid made of love and at the top of my body I love you was the smell incense infinity with your hands cherished dream. I enjoyed the delicacy of honey never compared. I close my eyes, no one receives the charm of this encounter. I love you so, live and die with you in the distance in the ethereal space you want. " And upon death, the Honduran Diana Vallejo states: "... How many times are nobody for someone ...? How many hours will take our memories and our family memory? We are a horde of rites. Transmuted bullae. Tacking hugs a friend at the borders of Gods, God, Cosmos or drums of eternal longing. We live spore always ephemeral, deaths and celebrations. Party, carnival of voices, looks found ... "Along with these rises infraternidades rainbow of love that is born, grows, reproduces and dies, paraphrasing the Ecuadorian Rita Vargas: When Love Kills men do not cry or wolves howl or even dogs are concerned, but a dead silence stirs in your chest and a metallic sheen travels in the body, trying to erase memories and nostalgia ... the colors do not go away or dried flowers or shake the trees but the silence is conquering ... and shadow-are-we were gradually diluted ... Why: Oh! Of lovers who survive the tragedy when it kills love. I end with a fragment of Olivares jarocha Aldana, my delight in this ring of bells, the sound sample from the heart of countless women in the anthology I try to expose, sample of a blog that other pens might enrich for Acayucan Acayucan pride, the literary works of countless women, I know very well, can write, when they hit the win, the saddest lines and more joyful odes, "I said quietly that love is not membership, but need to touch wistfully silent. No more words to the secret language of souls who look like twinkling stars, that twinkle of excitement by the tenderness of a kiss, stolen in haste under the suspicious gaze of passers that!, No matter the place but the light waves cheeks blush ... "
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