Difference Between Corn Meal And Maize Meal?

Victor. Note

On the threshold of noise
[Victor]

In many ways the night
has no name,
has only one color .
In many meaning
the world has no size,
but only directions.
know, men,
that there are cracks
in which the voice of the sea seeps
-cracks dream
the cracks in his sleep.
When the fog
salt water
-spark.
grasp lost horizons
not enough winds
- their hands
watch for the sun.
not enough moon
- with halos and corners
draped in blue.
the streets never traced
not enough to silence
-even if it's the only thing left
; wedged between the lines.
Among fractures s'inciampa
and nell'ululato the dark
no going back.
are veils and gauzes
-razors are
words, on the wounds.
Atmospheres and balsamic are poisons.
Take me with you on the shore
oceans devastated without ports,
there with you on the sand
brittle of my broken dreams.
with you, cries when innocence
-when he screams louder.
When yesterday's uproar
a blow-bullet here,
here in my chest, and today
is a path to be condemned.
There, in your maze so beautiful.
The daily reality is so fragile
-dust, to sweeten hot water.
Take me with you
langue where the darkness.
Where comes the dawn
-with its winds, which then
I graze without scratching
the fuzzy skin of the heart.
Light,
take me where the angels breathe.
But do not touch on the way
these wings are too heavy-
and close and bleed
shadows on the asphalt and sink
and my keys .
; Io che sono il nero
portami a vedere il sole.
                    Coprimi le orecchie
quando le mura strillano
e stonano e rombano echi.
Il suono, lo creo per il silenzio.
Portami dove passeggiano
  whispers
and everything is and only barely perceptible.
Where the winds are
breezes and mists are dim lights.
There, the entrance hatch of the world,
there, my angel, love me and sighs.
not drop from the clouds
-breathing winds and chills.
And the hem of lace the night
that I may turn to your aurora
-your hopes.
Falle mine, let's crystal
-the doorway of the winds.

regard to OT, is the only poem that has been able to write.
Perhaps because there is already in the history of all the poetry I am capable of, or maybe because it's really him.
Victor is poetry, it is more than anyone else, each other.
not a question of love more or less than all the others. There are characters of which I speak is still difficult. But he
. I do not know. It 's like the white rose. Would you say that it is a black rose, Victor. But it is not.
He is white.
More than any other.