It seems too late to begin new endeavors in the age of fifty when the sad melodies of fall giving way to the silence and exhaustion of winter. Especially something like poetry, which demands mental acuity and some other traits that we lose in our early youth. In this path of creation, which it is obvious for me will take place in very modest circumstances, there will be no journey in which the years and the changing seasons in my soul will enrich my pen, and everything will end after a few rickety steps. Before the days when I will not remember my name, even my daughter, whose symptoms have started to blink, I need to start writing as soon as possible. At least as a good thing, since there is no time to waste on the nonsense typical of youth, I will touch on the essence of the matter directly and in plain poetic language: The tragedy and misery of being and man.