close my eyes and my hair now dark slide brightly on the face, I look down on the keys of my blackened angel of strings. Thunders the sky, tearing the hiss of an evening without feeling faint, hidden now by thoughts and questions. Do not fly the imagination, chained to something that has more fictitious force of a thousand realities. And all is silent. Sibila
the guitar at the touch of your fingers .. The only pleasure I can enjoy these moments is an arpeggio melody that warms the heart and gives wings even where it seems impossible.
A closer look, love, takes possession of me. Note after note every thought is transmitted to the surrounding world, almost like an epidemic of bitter sadness. I love anything that inspires poetry, and thanks to escort hand of fate, I make my own music that makes the world a slave to the thought and feeling. Sandwiched between an agreement and a shake, the whistle of the fingers sliding on the strings makes me share a tribal dance of magic art, which is what so many live and some die.
I like to give a name to certain feelings, but there is no remedy for the trance that takes hold of my muscles and my memories, make you slaves of my own eyes in a glare of pain.
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