Actually, this book is not a book of poetry. This book is a sounding board where, fierce pair of lovers, fights the sound with its corresponding silence. It is also the plain where the light is with the adhered shadow, the chest in which the impetuous beat beats with the wet reluctance.

Actually, this book is not a book of poetry. It is wet earth, rain that wet the earth, hands that scratch the sand, spiders that weave without hands the dreams that pearl the night with drops that soak the clay.

This book is not a book of poetry. It is den, wind, the train and the trip, glass and walls collapsed, songs, stars and embryos. It is the lonely longing of the giant of a pavana, who wraps himself in pain and moans in imperfect past.

Actually, this book, yes, is pure poetry.