January 25, 2005

• I'm waiting to get my life back. Meanwhile am reading Neruda.

  Pact (Sonata)
  
  
  
  Neither the heart cut by a piece of glass
  
  in a wasteland of thorns
  
  nor the atrocious waters seen in the corners
  
  of certain houses, waters like eyelids and eyes
  
  can capture your waist in my hands
  
  when my heart lifts its oaks
  
  towards your unbreakable thread of snow.
  
  
  
  Nocturnal sugar, spirit
  
  of the crowns,
  
                        
  ransomed
  
  human blood, your kisses
  
  send me into exile
  
  and a stroke of water, with remnants of the sea,
  
  beats on the silences that wait for you
  
  surrounding the worn chairs, wearing out doors.
  
  
  
  Nights with bright spindles,
  
  divided, material, nothing
  
  but voice, nothing but
  
  naked every day.
  
  
  
  Over your breasts of motionless current,
  
  over your legs of firmness and water,
  
  over the permanence and the pride
  
  of your naked hair
  
  I want to be, my love, alone with a syllable
  
  of mangled silver, alone with a tip
  
  of your breast of snow.
  
  
  
  By now sometimes it is not possible
  
  to win except by falling,
  
  by now it is not possible to tremble between
  
  two beings, to touch the flower of the river:
  
  fibres of man come like needles,
  
  procedures, fragments,
  
  families of repulsive coral, torments
  
  and hard steps for winter
  
  carpets.
  
  
  
  Between lips and lips there are cities
  
  of great ash and moist summit,
  
  drops of when and how, vague
  
  comings and goings:
  
  between lips and lips as along a shore
  
  of sand and glass the wind passses.
  
  
  
  Therefore you are endless; gather me as though you were
  
  all solemnity, all made of night
  
  like a zone, until you are indistinguishable
  
  from the lines of time.
  
  
  
                                    
  Advance into sweetness,
  
  come to my side until the fingery
  
  leaves of the violins
  
  have gone silent, until the mosses
  
  take root in the thunder, until from the pulse
  
  of hand and hand the roots descend.

  • 1:04 pm
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