Emilio Paz

Emilio Paz (Lima, Perú, 1990) Professor of philosophy and religion, graduated from the Catholic University Sedes Sapientiae. He has published September in Silence (Poetic Reading Club, 2016), Labyrinth of Verses (The Equestrian Turtle, n394, 2018) and The Ballad of the Outcasts (Angeles Del Papel, 2019). His writings appear in various media in Peru, Chile, Argentina, Venezuela, Colombia, Ecuador, Brazil, Costa Rica, Mexico, United States, Romania, Spain, India, Cuba, India, Bangladesh, Bulgaria, Sweden, and Italy. Research the relationship between aesthetics, education and poetry. He directs the blog El Eden of poetry (https://edenpoetico.wordpress.com/), co-directs the Kametsa Magazine and the charity recitals The voices of the hummingbird.



  1. On your chest,
    Over your breasts,
    I found my peace.
    Soul that were lost,
    today is in its home.
    There, where the birds
  2. are not afraid of hunters,
  3. your word is holding my soul.
  4. Between your hands,
  5. on your thighs
  6. there is God who takes pity on me
  7. and he talks to me,
  8. softly,
  9. about my ancestors stories.
  10. Here there is no exiled Eva
  11. neither innocent
  12. In your marine meats,
  13.  there´s the origin of my thoughts,
  14. the nobility of human feelings.
  15. Carnations that are born in the deserts
  16. are the ones I find in your eyes,
  17. and yoursenses are poetry
  18. that is proclaimed by archangels.
  19. In your luminiscent precence,
  20. the darkness of my reason
  21. find light and all the world
  22. begin to have sense and order.
  23. Here you are,
  24. embracing my fears
  25. and allowing me to be a bird
  26. which cuts the breath,
  27. without causing blood.
  28. Never leave,
  29. never die,
  30. never stop being you,
  31. My dear.


  2. Poetry
  3. is the last link
  4. of a long chain.
  5. Chain
  6. in which the human being holds on
  7. for not to fall into the oblivion.
  8. Oblivion
  9. which is the last link
  10. of a long chain
  11. which always points
  12. to God.



  1. Spider, is an eight-legged poem.
  2. Each leg is a verse.
  3. Each verse is a dam.
  4. Each dam is a silence.


  1. Pinoccio was not made of wood,
  2. he was made of dreams
  3. His name was written
  4. on sand,
  5. on molten iron.
  6. Paradoxical.
  7. Pinoccio was a dream
  8. of a man
  9. who was dying.


  1. Man is a temporal being
  2. like a river,
  3. like a lake,
  4. like the placenta,
  5. like the stars,
  6. like emptiness and existence.
  7. Fastened to the time, by the hand.
  8. But man clings to the eternal,
  9. to the possibility of stopping time.
  10. Man plays to be God,
  11. but without that boredom of stillness.
  12. Man looks himself in front of a mirror
  13. and he prays to the tense image
  14. that rest on the face of the moon;
  15. to that Rabbit who saw the ancients
  16. and now your grandchildren will see.
  17. Man plays with parabola and gear
  18. of a mystery that can be solved.
  19. Man clings to eternity
  20. in love and in verse,
  21. as the artisans of beauty,
  22. as the wisdom gurus.
  23. Man clings to eternity in a poem.


  1. The body is a standard measure.
  2. The length and the perihelion are complemented
  3. in the diaphanous word that emanates
  4. of that precise kiss
  5. that reminds of the Crescent.
  6. The body has an articulated indentation in the clavicle,
  7. a twilight mole in the navel.
  8. The umbilical cord remains as a serene vestige
  9. from a time when death was not feared:
  10. it was the time before the Spanish conquest.
  11. Now, the body is an existence
  12. that predominates to be called by the resistance
  13. and it compenetrates with the revolution.
  14. The body is a standard measure
  15. to understand the width that exists
  16. between life and death.



  1. You and I are the tomb of death,
  2. the lighthouse guiding the fireflies.
  3. We are the flood and the drought,
  4. the synthesis of the planetary problems.
  5. We are the hot and the cold,
  6. We are the up and the down
  7. You and I are the lost landscape of watercolors,
  8. the order of painted murals
  9. by the amputated soul of the boys
  10. We are the tomb of death,
  11. we are the word that takes away the voice of oblivion.
  12. We are the homeland we chose to live.



Love is a drug consumed without control.

Transform the man who is no longer a man,
Transforms it into a beast under the bed
throw your sins into the Church
and God feels offended.

Love is a sad song of cats,
It's the cold coffee in the morning
It's loneliness after the rain stopped.

The man drinks and eats love
The 24 hours of the day,
in every corner, in every cemetery.

Love transforms into a ghost
that possesses the minds of lovers
and when it ends with them
leaves them wrapped in the blue night
That calls the archangels for judgment.


Happiness is a lost bullet.

The passport of men to conquer worlds
It becomes a soup of happy words.
Ideas and thoughts that conspire with the heart
cheating in the eyes of reason.

The birds fly to Venus and Mars.
They steal the nuts in their hearts
and deposit them in the nests where they will feed
to the future offspring of the dictatorship.

The fish cut the sea
and shed their blood on the beaches.
The crabs walk looking for food,
but the sea foam covers them with hope.

Happiness is a coffin with the lid open.

Start with the sound of a kiss without an owner,
while the faceless face observes tenderly
that death that is justified with the purposes of God.

What is death but a master play
of happiness that disguises itself as sin?

Happiness feeds on man's dreams
and becomes a beautiful parasite that adopts a pronoun:
me you him. We are all children of happiness
even in the hours of death.

We are condemned to be happy.


News in Latin America indicates that:

In Peru one can be a rapist and be free.
In Brazil it doesn't matter if an Amazon dies, one less mouth.
In Argentina you can live with a hole in your pocket.
In Chile, the constitution of a dictator predominates.
In Venezuela they have built a blood road.

In Mexico, bodies are collected.
In the United States a wall with skulls of children is raised
and separates from the rest of Latin America
although it has more Latinos than in the rest of the countries.

In the midst of the plague announce the reforms,
But tanks crush dreams.
Breakfast is no longer free, now it costs to be commoner.

The mafias control the judiciary and the military
corpses disappear in arson.
A cat cries for its owner who will no longer return
and a dog was immolated by his fighting master.

Girls lose the innocence of the game
and they know the pain caused by the fire of hell.

Latin America burns and the USA continues in its Monopoly game.
The table is distributed among the northern countries
and all that is left we settle for some hope
born in the form of messiahs, judge or king.

Because in the hands of young people
is the only safe place
To bury our dead.

News in Latin America shows that an old musical hit
It has become the anthem of millions,
in the funeral march of so many others,
in the voice that realizes the existence of God
although he was still locked in his medieval castle.

Today, Latin America burns and a blood road
It is named after all our dead.

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