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The creative hands stop in their dance, suspensive points emerge when the emotional whirlwind does not find a way to pour itself into prosaic current. The words get stuck in the inner labyrinths that the poet travels through in a solitary wandering.
With his gaze fixed on that light of escape that does not advance, that is immobilised... But those same hands sometimes become balm, caresses that bring peace to the agitated spirit, relief to the souls that wander aimlessly, still without finding their twin essence.
It is the poet who invites us to continue the search for that primordial thread that time has imprisoned in another life, in another suffocated sigh, or that has been lost by clinging to finished stories.
Versatile are those hands that create emptiness and also the fullness of meanings, that weave silences but also certainties, suspensive points pregnant with new beginnings.
Creative hands that dance between what is expressed and what awaits unfathomable to be revealed. For the poet is the alchemist of the word, the craftsman who interweaves the discontinuous ends, threads the labyrinths of the soul with his verses, illuminates the dark alleys with his ink, opening the way to light in the existential jams, creating suspensory points that expand towards the future.