The Venetian blind, without closing at all, like
a somersault restraining itself so as not to fall on the ground,
separates us from the air. Look, thirty-seven
horizons open, upright and fragile,
but the heart forgets them. Without yearning,
the light keeps dieing on us that was honey-
colored, and that now has the color and smell of apples.
How slow, the world; how slow, the world; how slow,
the pain for the hours that go by
so hurriedly. Tell me, do you really
remember this season?
“I like it very much.
Those voices of workers – Who are they?
Masons:
a house is missing on the block.
“They sing,
and today I can’t hear them. They shout, they laugh,
and today, when they are silent, they are strangers to me.”
How slow,
the red leaves of the voices, how uncertain
when they come to cover us. Asleep,
the leaves of my kisses are covering
the shelters of your body, and while you forget
the high leaves of summer, the open days
without kisses, the body,
in its depths, remembers: your skin
is still half sun, half moon.
(Gabriel Ferrater)
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Based on Topics: World Poems, Light Poems, Pain Poems, Summer Poems, Kiss Poems, Body Poems, Laughter PoemsBased on Keywords: restraining, masons, venetian, separates, somersault, thirty-seven, dieing