Inspired by Pablo Neruda’s “I can write the saddest verses…”and Ennio Morricone’s “Le vent, le cri”* * * * * *
I can write another poem about the distance tonight.
Something about chants over shivering seconds and stolen lights,
about his mahogany eyes and forgotten Milonga dance.
But the night burns with treacherous sparks,
with thousand butterflies over cliffs and tides.
I can write another poem about him, how I craved
his lips, his words, his hands and sometimes he did too.
In nights like this, within crested dreams, he desired me
and sometimes I did too.
And how couldn’t I? Lust suffocated the pain in this sweet combat.
I can write another poem about love and passion under
the never-ending violin sounds and voluminous skies;
when I know that everything is bound to break,
even the perfection in the curves chasing the ocean.
To feel that with every crash of the waves I have lost him.
To hear the whispers of his soul, faraway whispers,
even more without him,
when the night ignites under the moonlight and
poetry drops heavily on my heart, just like
the rain that strikes everything dead or alive.
And that’s all there is. In the distance someone plays
Morricone on the piano. In the distance.
My mind does not know harmony. My heart searches for his.
My voice longs for the breeze that would carry my secrets to him;
how I no longer hate the darkness of the night without him,
it’s true, but maybe I still do. Longing comes so suddenly, settles
comfortably in the shape of a precious hug and never dies.
Because in nights like this he always held me in his arms,
through the imaginary miles apart,
while poetry drifted into the distance, silently, lilac- like and sad …
… and I think this is a post good enough to celebrate one year since I started Between the Shadows and the Soul …