In bed we laugh, in bed we cry,
And born in bed, in bed we die;
The near approach a bed may shew
Of human bliss to human woe.
*
He said something and I had to think of N.
When I came up with N.?
At what point, during which of his words?
-Yes I know in which,-
what's happened to me on that word?
Thoughts began with the word.
That started the chain.
But what is it that turns into chain?
Is that I say it?
That started the chain.
But what is it that turns into chain?
Is that I say it?
**
The first signal of an incipient knowledge is the desire of death.
This life seems to be insupportable, the other, unreachable.
***
From the generations of roses
that deep down in time have been lost
I want that one might be saved from oblivion,
one without mark or sign between things
that were. The fate holds for me
this gift of first name
that silent flower, the latter
rose that Milton came to his face,
without seeing her.
****
Oh you vermilion or yellow
white or rose of some erased garden,
magically leave your immemorial
past and shine in this verse,
gold, blood or ivory or gloomy
as in his hands, invisible rose.
****
I never had the chance to tell you this, but now I can feel this absense less as a seductive strategy as the sadness of knowing I could have been a better lover.
And let me tell you that poetry, if exists, is just a mirror of what you produced in me.
I know my only hope now is that you can read this.
I know my only hope now is that you can read this.
In some derelick place I found a little note, written in a wall.
Said, as I remember now:
"Love is like a bonfire, if you are too far you get cold, but too close you will burn".
I think this fires were made just to be burn,
or maybe to unify oneself with the original fire...
