words in the loft

I do not mind, 
much less, apparently, 
I am what each,
of me I want to see. 
More grotesquely, 
more Dantesque, 
a complex story, 
or a simple sketch, 
Hell himself, 
with all their cries, 
or the sea of ​​paradise, 
in a serene dawn.
 Here I am, barefoot,
a handful of errors, 
and a few virtues,
 including peppered. 
And I urge life,
 anointed vanity, 
and I urge me to death, 
who shares my days.
 I love far as I can, 
as far as it silence, 
hatred until oblivion,
 your name is carried in the wind. 
The nine muses know me, 
and they know that before twelve, 
must flee from me, 
not to be slaves in my night. 
Still alone,
 It seems I was always alone, 
munching dreams,
 in the river of the deaf, 
taking heavily loaded coffee, 
scrabbling in yesterday, 
that endless minute,
 I do not want to recognize, 
and sometimes deeply I believe, 
without knowing,
I Pedro,and I am wolf, 
escaping the mob in the echo.
 I am a house without windows, 
with a white daisy, 
no one has seen inside,
 that will never see the morning; 
and silence, 
witness of my banishment, 
my absent words, 
and the misadventures of my kisses. 
Little remains in my book, 
Time is not the friend, 
that in the last meters, 
You can stay with me.