It is a real joy to see that, after almost a year of hard work and repeated regrets, I can finally register here that I have finished a new little volume of poems. In poetry, it is undeniable that there is such a prize. It pleases the feeling of being the author of finished verses, a feeling that is quite different with prose. It is pleasing, above all, because poetry surprises, due to the poetic technique itself, and surprises even the reader who is the author of the verses he reads. This surprising effect, when unveiled by the new reading, brings sincere satisfaction by evoking in mind the moment of brilliance of its creation. This is poetry: a lot of hard work, and a few flashes that seem to justify such work; flashes that, shining in the midst of a cohesive whole, confer immense value to a deceptively sterile creation.