With my bad writing and the favourable wind I put to sail my words among thousand of hectic pieces of paper, seas of ink where, after some bottles of rum, I work in boarding of your beats. Letter of marque awarded in favour of your black skirt, flag leading my clandestine feelings in each night battle of this old shallow vault, body that goes under behind your strange walking.

Sailor of fresh water that salts every voyage where I board together this captain that set sail in search of the deserted island of the treasure hid behind your blouse. You. With your cannon shots, smiles that break the keel of this pirate ship that skipper my heart with so bad luck and hook in the inkwell through so much grammatical swell that annoys my untidy emotions.


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