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Flor Maritza Santamaría -Kovacs



like abandoned children in China, 

Left alone in the stone floor.


like the steps of women,

walking back and forth

by the dodgy streets



He left, 

Hiding her name,

Wrapped in the soft paper,

Of his thief´s hands.


How shall we name her, 

Asked the woman carrying with a baby.

He, chocking a laughter and a cough at the same time,

Sweating the wine by his pores,

Said nothing. 

Nothing at all.

Is the name of a daughter, you are looking for?

Mulling his words, 


Half drunk.

Yes! Spurt her with a smile,

Big, candid, smile.

So deep,

In love.

A name, my dear. 

A song,

A zeal,

For the fruit of us both.

His answer 


an everlasting silence.

She pretended not to hear, 

Thinking in bunnies,


And pink teddy bears.

But deep, besides the grin, 

an infimus fear.

Minutes of vacuum ran, 

until she heard a cowardly slam, 

And the same door that let him in,

Made a dry shut in her back.

The draft blowed the names 

She had standing 

On the table of her mind,

Like if they were a crumbling castle,

Made by a deck of cards

Cards the devil,

Sneaky and mischievous,

Set for the sake 

Of his insidious fun.

He left,

Never looked back.

He left,

leaving her, 

with just a broken glass

where minutes before,

was the place of a beating heart. 

Her eyes In darkness, 

Her lips,

The gate to an empty whole 

Filled of spiderwebs.

With a last strength, with a thread of voice

denied to die,

She got to mumble,

some name:




Stayed the woman with child.


For moons, 

Four months

What kind of name, 

would be loving him now.


After giving birth 

To a baby girl, 

While writing a tag, to put on her chest,

Packed her on some rags,

She could understand

her name,

was meant to be,


Poemas: Text


Flor Maritza Santamaría -Kovacs


"The boat... The desire of calmed waters... 

Only the storm remains. Thunders and lightnings of pain.

The roar of the wind... 

The waves, splashing sad memories over a broken compass.

The imposibility of the sight, damp and blur. 

The miopia of the rain.

The short of the mind, the tied and gagged soul. 

Poor soul, criying of fear and doubt. 

Incarnated loneliness. 

Evil body, keeping her hostage in a dungeon. 

Locked with locks of seven sins"... 

Poemas: Text


Flor Maritza Santamaría-Kovacs

Courage, I hear…
As a whisper, a buzz,
An echo,
The waves of a stone thrown in a pond,
A word starting to shape,
knitting an armor with threads of my entrails,
And strips of my flesh.
Courage, I hear again,
Rimes with carriage,
The carriage of my soul pulled by more than one Frisian horse.
What is this power that grows inside me?
What is that blinding light,
What is that strength that makes me rise
from the dungeons of my pride?
Humility, my inner voice exults,
Humility, the only sword,
Of the brave.

Poemas: Text
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