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the sun is killing me

shining right into the wound

spilling the pain for all to see

its glare merciless



the rays like daggers

and sweet all the same

loving and hating

while dying





there is a magical belt

wrapped around the Earth

that only few have access to

it is the escape route

and the signpost

it is the place for lost souls

and for those who know

why they are here



Un mot ici

Un autre là

Ce qui, moi?


What can I do

to change my life

to make it real

to make it live.

I seem to walk lost in a fog

shrouded in dreams

that cannot be stopped

and won’t forget.

They follow me

all through the days

nights so abundant

they change my face.

The eyes that stare

in mirror sharp

the stars they see

are shards of glass.

Jim Holyoak

The time has come

To search the mind

For all the pain

Can’t stop the time.


And dreams of love

We cherished so

Cannot come true

Since long ago.


The mind is weak

And so are we

The nights still crowd

With fantasy.


And we shall live

The way we did

The time has come –

and left with me.


Art: Jim Holyoak |


Art is long, life is short 

A friend of mine has died. I only found out about it the other day, purely by chance. He died last December. To me, he had been alive all this time. I could envision him painting, dressed in a paint-spattered caftan in front of his easel. What is the nature of death? When does a person cease to exist? For me, Fernando lived on… until the sudden news. If I pretended I never got it, would he still be alive in my world?


Fernando Ureña Rib (21 March 1951 – 27 December 2013)



Jorge Luis Borges: The Unending Gift

A painter promised us a picture.

Here in New England, having learned of his death, I felt once again the sadness of recognizing that we are but shapes of a dream. I thought about the man and the picture, both lost.

(Only the gods can make promises, for they are immortal.)

I thought about the place, chosen in advance, where the canvas will not hang.

Later, I thought: if it were there, wouldn’t it in time become one thing more – an object, another of the vanities or habits of the house? Now the picture is limitless, unending, capable of taking any form or colour and bound to none.

In some way, it exists. It will live and grow, like music, and will remain with me to the end. Thank you, Jorge Larco.

(Men can make promises, too, for in a promise there is something that does not die).








Art: Fernando Ureña Rib


Tangled up in filaments of fear

Tripping on hope

Slipping on longing

I stumble and grope in despair

The unknown my hunting ground

Without end

Bordered by death

And life

Tangled up in a web of providence

I release my hold on all

And breathe in anew…






Along the seam

Of here and there

Of life and death

Of now and then

I cling to the space

Between the stitches


Partly here

But wholly lost

I belong to

Nothing and nowhere


So far…





Art: Berndnaut Smilde

Nimbus D’Aspremot



Life is like a flipbook

The pages speed up

Images appearing faster and faster

What will be the final one?