The Lark has disappeared just before the reader from reaching the poem. But there is an answer in the poetry of Quessep for the death of the enchanted: not everything is yours oblivion something we are left between the ruins I think that will never be dust who saw his flight or heard her singing. ditional related pages. For Quessep death is less than human and therefore his poetry moves toward the realm of legend, the story of the intangible but permanent. Juan de Mairena wrote: dialogue of a man with his time, is what the poet intended to perpetuate, pulling it out of the weather, difficult task and requires much time, almost all the time available to the poet ‘. Giovanni Quessep has done: madrigals of life and death (1977), Preludes (1980), poetry (volume which brings together his work until 1980), death Merlin (1985) and imaginary letter (1998) live testimony of this. Last year Galaxia Gutenberg published metamorphosis of the garden (1968-2006) collected poetry, a true jewel that readers of poetry should not be deprived. I leave you with a small sample. POEM to remember ALICIA in the mirror here as legendary and real thing our history is such that wonderful girl penetrated in the mirror it was always about to disappear but none gave the formula that returned it to powder Ni Tweedledum or Tweedledee nor the Queen nor the Red King that the only thing I had to do was wake up maybe are a story perhaps without us ever noticing the ship of Ulysses or the Nightingale of Keats (that bird not destined for death) say that what has been a canto of the Odyssey continue being us without ceasing to be why the country of wonders and someone may recognize us listening to the unwritten history still in the story Castle history multiple Moon in history destroyed toy history anyway when I spent a cloud over Alicia Tal time we are the shadow of the blue in his hand.

VIGIL steps in the garden. Watchdog hits the bark of Apple trees and there are birds that fled, are others caged in time and silver light. Fables not enchant me; ensure I want my arms tonight or go through the garden and heard the clovers that saved the wonders of the White Tower in the dust under my steps. Under the Apple tree and beside me a woman browsing an old book: demons there are lathe and a source reflects a deer, a Bengal tiger. The steps go and come and do not know who is the watchdog, the guarded. Original author and source of the article.