Enrique Morente It's like a gypsy plugged sigh. As the length of a night that smells like orange and wine, but it is guarded by a trail of neon light, due to increased supply of roses and lilies.
A singer with a cry in the chest that reaches beyond the eye can reach the most powerful god, writhing in his bed.
The cry of the river prevents divine hear the echo resounds in his forehead. Today runs more violent than other nights. Hop on the patio. The night is broken in a shipwreck of stars, topped by a moon that seems artificial, as if projected Val del Omar himself from Comares, as a sheer screen ready to project your prophecies. When the man lowers his head, angered by what the beauty of the land and the liquid murmur of the river sing to you from the beauty and the rumor, a magnificent presence appears to him. Is high as a thousand towers that nobody dared to build.
In their eyes, a glow suicide, his word is written. His word is that it announces. Nails are made of ice and eyelids do not give up before the most dangerous challenge. Determined, Archangel looks at the singer at her. Behind born skyscrapers, glass spells and curses. After him, boys and girls, black teeth, lips purple from the cold, the skin was torn off with each nobody new verse recited. A tear (one cable) wanders through her cheek in a short sprouting leaves in darkness (for a lucid moments) your belly and soul. Then the angel left the patio and returns to its nest (a nearby mountain, very close).
in their tracks, the singer (the artist total) finally accepts the voice of the oracle of leather winged back to bed. That night they squirm with each shake of his prophecy. And each new download, between the walls of his bed, carve the name of that vision and that vision that will light and shelter to the zambra from now.
By Fernando M. Navarro (Special IndyRock)
