It’s a new week. Yet nothing has changed.

So I turn to Pablo, my one standing date. His writing is lovely and lyrical and the way he describes love and death and nature and passion makes it feel so personal, so obvious and yet …

… nobody could write like this. I mean, really. Come on. How do the words resonate with almost anyone who reads them? It can’t be just me, right?

Well, the truth is, Pablo could write like this. And he did. And he did it better than anyone.

“…ah, I can say nothing! You were made of everything.

Longing that sliced my breast into pieces,
it is time to take another road, on which she does not smile.

Storm that buried the bells, muddy swirl of torments,
why touch her now, why make her sad.

Oh to follow the road that leads away from everything,
without anguish, death, winter waiting along it
with their eyes open through the dew.”

Or this, still my favorite, from “Tonight I can write” …

“I no longer love her, that’s certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.”

And this one, about summer:

“The morning is full of storm
in the heart of summer.

The clouds travel like white handkerchiefs of goodbye,
the wind, traveling, waving them in its hands.

The numberless heart of the wind
beating above our loving silence.

Orchestral and divine, resounding among the trees
like a language full of wars and songs.

Wind that bears off the dead leaves with a quick raid
and deflects the pulsing arrows of the birds.

Wind that topples her in a wave without spray
and substance without weight, and leaning fires.

Her mass of kisses breaks and sinks,
assailed in the door of the summer’s wind.”

And this:

“I thought I was dying, I felt the cold up close
and knew that from all my life I left only you behind:
my earthly day and night were your mouth,
your skin the republic my kisses founded.

In that instant the books stopped,
and friendship, treasures restlessly amassed,
the transparent house that you and I built:
everything dropped away, except your eyes …”

Or a few lines that stand alone so beautifully when taken from the rest of the poems:

“in your life I see everything that lives.”

“…so I wait for you like a lonely house
till you will see me again and live in me.
Till then my windows ache.”

“…I want you to live while I wait for you, asleep.”

“I go so far as to think that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains,
dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want
to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.”


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