Empty Places.

The sun is gone with all the gray memories. Sweet memories,tender thoughts, warm senses, bright shapes, sweet voices, light whisper, warm breath, eternal sunshines.

Faded the field and its flower with all budded charms, faded the shape of beauty from my mind, faded the voice with entirely tenderness, faded the sight of beauty from my soul eyes, leaving this empty room so quite than a millions stars. Brave is the sea, and humble is the heart, no please more transcending to the end of this chart.

Autumn is coming and hope seems to be more lightness.

Ana Velarde.


A Room of Butterflies

Nowhere is the place where butteflies go and amend their memories. Composed by colors, whispering memories looking for bright senses. They seem so far away from reality, pleasure exist and is not conteined in jars.

My dearest heart, I’m now at a very pleasant window looking a beautiful pretty memory country, with a very greatful sea. The morning is very sunny and I don’t know how can I explain my freedom and how elastic my spirit might be, but pleasure of mine is having memories of you do not weight upon me. Asking my love where in you  not to be cruel and not sharing the senses memories and asking  yourself how it would be, being unfair or fair. For myself, I don’t know how to express my devotion of you, and the lightness that comes to the dark.

All I only wish we were butterflies, and live by three or seven days, such rich days with you  I would feel more delighted than fifty coming years that could never contained that unique bright.

Ana Velarde.

Somebody already broke my heart.

Tantas veces que ya pierdes las cuentas y aprendes a perdonar; cuando la primera vez fueron tus padre y luego te das cuenta que esa era solo la primera vez.

Luego tienes que ser como el Ave Fénix, no existes, pero debes traerlo de la imaginación a la realidad. Trata de aferrarte a lo bueno, aunque sea, como las migajas podridas, olvidadas y escondidas debajo de la alfombras con la escoba de la discordia.

Llegas a hacer vulnerablemente fuerte y aprendes a convivir con los errores del pasado, sueles jugar con ellos las escondidas los domingos por las noches en el patio trasero donde estan los azulejos rotos por encuentros intrínsecos. 

Dar no es lo mismo que recibir, recibir no es lo mismo que dar; te duele hasta los huesos y las ansias te comen los motivos, pero al amanecer sonries a la suave brisa de tu conciencia.