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Inevitably

Although the first rule for uploading blog entries is to avoid reciting first person singular and added to it, I hate (and breaks the first rule above) that when someone dies everyone will take a publication, a nick, a state facebook, etc., as if they were always necessary and also no one could talk strongly desire to be in tune . Certainly encuéntranse here than one might imagine: the cries of a fan for the death of Mario Benedetti. Epithets aside rhetoric and convoluted that many could write better than one, the reason for evoking Benedetti is simple: very few guts shake me like him does not interest me your resume, or that is moment's notice , nor add words, simply the engine tonight despite starting the no intention of a farewell.
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Invisible Mario Benedetti

Death is waiting
she knows what winter
although I
not know
why she and I
barricades
Stevedores sacrifices
reborn in the embrace
forest estate that no one
recognizes that there
invention
my fires burning in these reports
corkscrew Smoke
that goes into the sky

by that she and I put

doubts and screens as backdrops mists

pretexts and foliage embankments of guilt
curtains of innocence

so until the bulwark
of things in my life is
treacherous death delete
remove it from my eyes
hide and suppress the
Me and my memory

meanwhile

she hopes

Cartoon (self) Mario Benedetti in Poetry with young

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Benedetti (Sin)

wore shirt and jeans worn at the seams, trailing empty future in the midst of the sublime and gray city, between the world looks without seeing, nor was the exception, as for all the automation was also his guide. Decided to stop, breathe, "I guess instinct just called, and depending on the color of the shadow or how many times gruyen pigeons, perhaps it becomes a human (ide). He recalled that at some point would not reach the point of remembering between distant patches of thousands and allegories. Without more knowledge about botany, he thought suddenly that hope was like a rose defective brought no thorns, but seem tempting after causing so many wonder, evokes a world in vain, wandering between certain interests and discursive lightness, and there it ends, no birth, no death, no lies though you can not deny their existence, but is withering and dying. He thought he did not really like flowers and even strives to boast of never having set foot in a botanical garden. Annoying threads unraveled some of its seams and picked up the pace steady, accurate directions of nonsense.