This evening, I found myself writing Haikus that I'd have wanted to put in a little booklet to be left along with other books on my coffee table. Not so much to read them myself, but so that potential visitors may have the leisure to wander through a story which I have been trying not to keep telling myself, and maybe, like in Sōseki's Three-Cornered World, correct and improve on my feeble attempts at capturing beauty that is more painful than it is enlightening.

To me, they embody the synesthetic experience of transfiguring the mundane into tiny fragments of infinity, turning a seemingly banal prose into a gripping frontal collision with the absolute. I suspect that when you reach enlightenment, everything sounds to you like those "verses" sound to me. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. When everything is beautiful, when all is poetry, you become a Saint.

«Quisiera tomar
un café para hablar
algunas cosas»

«Me avisas si—
ese café contigo
—si te viene bien.»

Humo del café:
Donde contarse todo
entre dos sorbos.

Está tan negro
y tan amargo, y no
hablo del café

(no te escribo
para recoger esas
hojas faltantes)

Dijo: «si quiero,
falta más que páginas.»
¿Quién ganó eso?

«Quiero un café,
pero sepas que nunca
será mañana...»

Pese a que dio
el caso por zanjado,
¡quería algo!

«Algunas cosas»
No De algunas cosas
sino «Algunas»...

Where did I go wrong?
Was I even ever either
good to go along?

Coffee in Huesca,
for poets and for soldiers,
no more anymore.

Nowhere can I go
where the shadows don't follow.
Even in the dark.

Se han quemado
tres sílabas mágicas
en mis poemas.

Perdí tu nombre
y ahora me falta
lo más bonito.

Cada café, cada día
me recuerda tu cara
como la luna.