The masks are back in place upon a some what more hallow shell than usual, so no real update. But here's someones else's poem:
Never let me lose the marvel
of your statue-like eyes, or the accent
the solitary rose of your breath
places on my cheek at night.
I am afraid of being, on this shore,
a branchless trunk, and what I most regret
is having no flower, pulp, or clay
for the worm of my despair.
If you are my hidden treasure,
if you are my cross, my dampened pain,
if I am a dog, and you alone my master,
never let me lose what I have gained,
and adorn the branches of your river
with leaves of my estranged Autumn.
Never let me lose the marvel
of your statue-like eyes, or the accent
the solitary rose of your breath
places on my cheek at night.
I am afraid of being, on this shore,
a branchless trunk, and what I most regret
is having no flower, pulp, or clay
for the worm of my despair.
If you are my hidden treasure,
if you are my cross, my dampened pain,
if I am a dog, and you alone my master,
never let me lose what I have gained,
and adorn the branches of your river
with leaves of my estranged Autumn.
VIEW 8 of 8 COMMENTS
aspasia:
You ROCK. AWESOME.
salome:
Ah, I am completely infatuated with the South American authors such as Garcia Lorca, Garcia Marquez, Allende, Borges ... such evocative, romantic, nostalgic beauty emanates from their every word, even when translated. (My Spanish isn't that great anymore)