Bitter love, a violet with it’s crown of thorns in a thicet of spiky passions, spear of sorrow, corolla of rage: how did you come to conquer my soul? What brought you?
I want to see thirst In the syllables, Tough fire In the sound; Feel through the dark For the scream.
Give me, for my life, all lives, give me all the pain of everyone, I’m going to turn it into hope. Give me all the joys, even the most secret, because otherwise how will these things be known? I have to tell them, give me the labors of everyday, for that’s what I sing.
Everything is ceremony in the wild garden of childhood.
My soul is an empty carousel at sunset.
I have slept with you all night long while the dark earth spins with the living and the dead, and on waking suddenly in the midst of the shadow my arm encircled your waist. Neither night nor sleep could separate us.
And I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine. They climb on my old suffering like ivy.
About me, nothing worse they will tell you, my love, than what I told you.
I don’t want to go on being a root in the dark, vacillating, stretched out, shivering with sleep, downward, in the soaked guts of the earth, absorbing and thinking, eating each day.
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.
Te amo sin saber como, ni cuando, ni de donde. te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo: asi te amo porque no se amar de otra manera, sino asi de este modo en que no soy ni eres...
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every window.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way than this: where I do not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.
When I got the chance I asked them a slew of questions. They offered to burn me; it was the only thing they knew.
How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running. So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes, and over our heads the grey light unwinds in turning fans.
Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness And the infinite tenderness shattered you like a jar.
There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and the ruins, and you were the miracle.
Tell me, is the rose naked or is that her only dress? Why do trees conceal the splendor of their roots? Who hears the regrets of the thieving automobile? Is there anything in the world sadder than a train standing in the rain?