Francisco Muñoz Soler (Spain)

Francisco Muñoz Soler (Spain)
Spanish poet with and extensive work published in countries like Spain, Mexico, United States,
India, Turkey, Perú, El Salvador and Venezuela. It has been translated into English, French,
Russian, Turkish, Italian, Arabic, German, Romanian, Macedonian, Kazakh, Uzbek, Assamese,
Hindi and Bengali.
His poetry is intimate, full of fine sensitivity, impressive that invites reflection, his lyrical self
offers us testimony of existing, shows us an ethical commitment to the existence of otherness
in his poems of social criticism, in the search for expression There is your greatest
achievement. A universal poetry that embraces the thirst for justice, peace and flies the flag of
His work is also included in Anthologies and in more than a hundred literary magazines.
He is the organizer of the Plenilunio Poetic Cycle of Malaga.
are to live, to return, how to make yourself conceive
in your mind as a child that you must fight, overcome
the borders that the evil of men puts us, son, how to
get to you if I hid the truth from you and you
probably don’t believe me,
then tell me what is worth to be a father.
A WEEKEND at home, like many,
I feel this one different, I will talk to Julio who misses
me, I will encourage him and ask him for the strength
that I do not have, this weekend I feel different,
complex sensations run through the atony that envelop
me producing waves
in the center of my origin.
was stopped and the sequence of days would run
parallel to the unchanging feeling that sustains my soul,
to the limitless love that gives me meaning, as a
monolith stands on my resignation, looking over the
fleeing of my present, designing a loop that involves
space and time converging in my center, returning my
mornings outside his absence.
order his thoughts, his aspirations, his acts he did five
minutes ago have disappeared from his consciousness,
in which spiral labyrinth penetrates his basic pillar
identity of his nature, his soul what attitude shows.
jovial asks me, how old am I, eighty or eighty-one,
eighty-one I answer, and I’m fine for that age because
they were surprised that I made the purchase alone and
I told them that I still remember where the market is,
smiling at me while I agree, and with naïve satisfaction
she continues with her simple thoughts and her
affections without limits.
I said goodbye to the year with bitterness and sorrow,
I started the new day by opening the window and a
splendid sun flooded my room, not a sound, as if the
morning had not yet given birth; I went down and in
the living room a wine rosco1 with its wrapping then, of
paper with blue tiny polka dots on a white background,
with liturgy I developed it, my palate noticed the
exquisite pleasure of a flavor that is only found in the
molecules of love, wine Malaga expanded throughout
my being reminding me that nothing and no one can
take away my ability to love.

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