I am Alejandro Barbeito, a young man with a few more years, within which I feel at a crossroads: very young to understand the past generation and too old to understand the continuous generation. It's like being in a state of catharsis; aware of how the world passes, time advances, only submerging me in a constant going and becoming (ticking ...) of ideas without afferent connections before my subjective reality.
Speaking of connections, my roots are submerged in the heart of a small-big town. Fighter, worker, for some only. Its beautiful landscapes, its color, make sprout in me that fervor that emanates through the skin, fervor that in turn segregates some letters anxious to be.
-But what are you doing with lyrics? What do you do with poetry? they say loudly the voices of my ancients.
-That does not put a plate on the table !, better shut up! -I keep silence. The eyelids are heavy, I find myself immersed in nothing, only darkness is what I perceive.
Oh, that uneasy spirit, which does not stop listening to the snort of wind among those araguaney trees in which their leaves murmur "gloria al Bravo Pueblo"! Woe to your majestic freedom! I find myself observing that soft wind penetrating sinuously inside of me, as if my body was just a clay vessel, forged in the hands of a potter, whose name always remained anonymous.
Old vessel cracked without distinction !, full of endless hullabaloo. For what purpose do you find useful? Those of the New age. I keep silent, I listen to the wind and cry:
-I just want to be poetry, I want to be everything in turn. I want to lose myself between nothingness, fill my world with nuances, your world ... without so much bullshit. So with a dog on the side, a pipe and a decorated rag, this madman began to walk his legacy.