segunda-feira, 26 de abril de 2010

Sleepwalking Piano

Like the sleep that never comes,
The flower that never blooms,
I am sterile.

Devoided of feelings,
Unprepaired for life...

I would compare myself to a sleepwalking piano,
the kind that wants to be played, but runs from the artists,
Not allowing anyone to play me!

The joy and sorrow that are part of my keys,
lights up everyone but me.

In my search for becoming more Human,
I dared my strings to make contact with the keys,
In hope to find the Perfect sound.

But like the mute button on your remote control,
No sound was ever heard...

Signed: Me...

terça-feira, 13 de abril de 2010

The Perfect Poem with the perfect "Joy de Vivre"

Sonnet 17

"I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

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

in which there is no I or you
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand
so intimate that when you fall asleep it is my eyes that close."

Pablo Neruda