I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
The sad rage, the shout, the solitude of the sea.
You made your decision,
chestnut, and leaped to earth,
burnished and ready,
firm and smooth
as the small breasts
of the islands of America.
As if down a long tunnel of clothing and of chores;
Your clear light dims, gets dressed, drops its leaves,
And becomes a naked hand again.
I awoke and at times birds fled and migrated that had been sleeping in your soul.
The shout facing the sea, among the rocks,
running free, mad, in the sea-spray.
And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.
Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude.
There was the black solitude of the islands,
and there, woman of love, your arms took me in.
Wine
stirs the spring, happiness
bursts through the earth like a plant,
walls crumble,
and rocky cliffs,
chasms close,
as song is born.
In the distance someone is singing.
Nevertheless its steps can be heard
and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.
Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
where my dog waits for my arrival
waving his fan-like tail in friendship.
In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded.
As she was before my kisses.
It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.
There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle.
Study, study it, at a certain hour, in a certain sea I know.
Perhaps this war will pass like the others which divided us leaving us dead, killing us along with the killers but the shame of this time puts its burning fingers to our faces. Who will erase the ruthlessness hidden in innocent blood.
And one by one the nights between our separated cities are joined to the night that unites us.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
But, poet, let
history rest in its shroud;
praise with your lyre
the grain in its granaries:
sing to the simple maize in the kitchen.
I love you only because it's you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.
As she once
belonged to my kisses.
A jug of wine, and thou beside me
in the wilderness,
sang the ancient poet.
Megaphone in which the wind passes singing.
I don't want so much misery.
In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.
How terrible and brief my desire was to you!
But from each crime are born bullets that will one day seek out in you where the heart lies.
Now I don't know which way to be. Absent-minded or respectful.
My soul is lost without her.
Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you,
what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned!
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
Bring them all
to where I am waiting for you;
we shall always be alone,
we shall always be you and I
alone on earth
to start our life!
I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.
You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep spring from coming.
Then,
We came by night to the Fortunate Isles,
And lay like fish
Under the net of our kisses.
Burn, burn, flame up, sparkle in trees of light.
Will you leave me here, dying?
Thinking, tangling shadows in the deep solitude.
Poetry is an act of peace. Peace goes into the making of a poet as flour goes into the making of bread.
Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost,
I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you.
Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly
when I am sad and feel you are far away?
Now, on the road to freedom, I was pausing for a moment near Temuco and could hear the voice of the water that had taught me to sing.
The birds of night peck at the first stars
That flash like my soul when I love you.
I want to do to you what spring does with the cherry trees.
Your light, your cornmeal, your hope
pervades America's solitudes,
and to hunger
your lances
are enemy legions.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories