Marcos, 20, my son
DEAF
There are days that seem normal but
the first to the second to the third activity
day,
go awry.
Before I do not know why, I was nervous, clutching
ass and grabbed my stomach, anxiety
dominated me.
But now, I have learned and now
split-second I wonder, analyze, assume, and nothing
worries me.
I also know that things will not be there,
that the road will break
and, indeed,
it happens.
I wonder, analyze, and I assume
becoming,
because most of the time, such
days than I speak, the thing
twist again and try then do not appear to laugh or smile
idiot ,
when explanations.
not pray for the end of the day,
about what might happen.
I started to enjoy these situations,
not everything will be pink
and not always going to look the sun, which hosts
. I have learned
to raise eyebrows and shrugged
undimmed and so the fate
saved me.
So when my son
shits
God or blame others for their mistakes
or excited by the inevitable, when you search my assertion
, which does not usually occur, "I read
their eyes, when I say misunderstanding
that the stones in his path,
only puts him
in this life that should be able to play with the cards
touch you, and
that nobody said
life was simple.
But he still does not listen. And
blame him, I
took 45 years to lose my hearing.
Bacchus, 2010
(grapes of this poem were collected on Tuesday, December 28, 2010, the day of the presentation of "Burning , rock poison" in Madrid after spending a night poetic Ana Perez Cañamares in Blue Devils. The wine obtained by carbonic maceration few days later, after leaving the grapes stand on each other, and wait for time to work hiciese. grounds and was cleared of burrs. The fruity nose is distilled dementia characteristic of the grape that absorbs all the land offers. Despite his youth, shows tannins and impurities that give it a distinctive bitterness at the end of the tasting)
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