Francisco Azuela (Mexico)

Francisco Azuela (Mexico)
Awarded with one of the 4 Awards granted by a prestigious jury of the California State Polytechnic University, through its Department of English and Foreign Languages (College of Letters, Arts, and Social Sciences), to integrate the Spring Harvest International 2006 / 2007, one of the most prestigious English language editions in the United States.
Solenzara International Poetry Grand Prize, Université de la Sorbonne, Paris, France 2013. Vincitori Assoluti XXXV Premio Mundiale di Poesía Nósside, Italy, 2020.
Finalist of the LAIA 2014. Annual International Literature Contest, Poemas: Ensueño, organized by the Culture department of the Latin American Intercultural Alliance, New York.
He is the author of 20 books of poetry, including the most recent: Poetry flies on the wings of language.
Mayar I
I am the other space I cannot find,
the waterfall that lacks in elevation,
a voiceless myth
on a road without earth;
I a, the one who knows no silences
in this journey through my own being,
the weariness and the germination
of what comes to an end to be re-born anew
the one who comes to go away once more.
A place exists unreachable to me.
All things become external
and lose their shadow
The light is dimming out before its time.
Mayar III
To die at birth is such a horrid fate:
we weep for days on end;
as we get lost within our own abode,
we discover a shadow in the gallows
of someone who slipped by
when the town was aslepp.
Fatigued by all
I return to the opposite end;
my steps are tracing back the road I walked.
Not even one of them has gone towaste.
Aztecal I
I went in her pursuit
believing she was the green-eyed child.
It was similar to following the path of a dream.
She walked barefoot
and sad-eyed;
she walked as a bouquet of fresh-cut flowers
at the peak of the night.
I think of her not as an obsession;
she was both the beginning and the end.
Today I begin to remember her closeness
and to feel her proximity.
In my memory
there is a special place,
l set aside to be never forgotten,
a space that flows like a river in the afternoon.

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