To dear Martin and Ludwig, about your beautiful words.

Sorry to enter your beautiful, coherent words.
Das Wort ist das Lebens des Seins.
Well, Martin, only in part, the being lives on images,
Feelings not translated to language, that’s music,
Or whatever gets a knot in your stomach,
Expressed in painting and furious behavior, tenderness,
Revealed in the deepest feelings of inner distress.

To you Ludwig, “the limits of my language are the limits of my world”
Sorry to say what others have appointed systematically.
I like you, and that is the Leitmotiv of my critic.
Don't have necessity to be philosophically cryptic,
You have dreamt, you have wished visions unrevealed, especially,
You were human, and in so being, knew that dream rules over reality,
Art over Life, so we are unlimited by language, even in latu sensu.

We have all the Theater,  surrealism, we have ourselves to prove.
Garcia Marquez, Isabel Allende, José Saramago, Roberto Bolano,
Those characteristics that we have in common with cats, dogs, pigs,
That empathy with plants and revered Trees, bees and black blue eyed twigs,
Cause we are the root and the leaf of all that lives.
And we return to that res extensa, departing from formal language,

Because we are the beginning and the edge of all we may pledge.