The writing pretending to explain what a poetic dedication to existence is, empty of a creative faith, will get lost in the task or trajectory because the affirmation will come for a denial, or the other way around, like the boat that will get lost in the unreachable ocean of the poetic material. I only speak from the survival instinct, like what is annihilated being robbed of itself, and later the poems are (as they say) a poor line of clouds. If by chance a flame came to your face, this also will drop off of your face and enters swollen lighting to tremble with the explanation of what you know, you've tried, and can't order it. In this retreat I look at myself, and from it, I will follow the path of accepting all the ignorances: a reflective poetry out of the poem, is the lower level that does not suck the soul of the poet; an explanation containing the cardinal points is the suicide of all maker, fallen to emptiness of the descriptive encounters, with sparse grass of intelligence and the shady field. I am going to bear the burden. From again in the solitude of the branch, with strange holes of light, I give what I can.