Writing about love is difficult, very difficult, but always possible, because everyone feels and loves in their own way. And everything can be an object and an objective to love. But in this there are exceptions: It is impossible to love war, or anything derived from it; I include death, although it is an inseparable part of life. It is better to love life with its best purposes; that is when it becomes imperishable that lever which should be indispensable to set in motion every atom of this world of ours. For this reason, in which I fervently believe, are here, my humble "POEMS WITHOUT MARGINS."
POEM XIV.
📝
Dedicated to the one who has helped me to carry the cross...
I do not wish to say the same old thing,
What others have repeated ad nauseam,
year after year.
I wish to tell you about something new,
what has never been said before.
Irrepeatable beyond measure.
Will there be words?
Will I have enough words?
What would be
those words never heard by you before,
never read by anyone else?
Despite my doubts,
I make the effort to express a part,
a fraction,
an atom
of all the feelings,
enclosed in the minuscule space
that encloses the essence of my person.
📝
.
I met you in the brief span
of a cultivated time,
when the weeping of the clouds
watered the mountains,
and the sun of May nibbled slowly
the leaves of the willows in the park.
.
It was pure luck for me,
so buffeted by the contrary winds
and the high tides out of control.
It was luck and nothing more.
Then came the denouement
awaited by us,
the impatient,
desperate to paint life
with the best colors.
And we were filling the pantries
with all the hopes of the madmen:
Orates for loving even the impossible.
And here we are,
forty years
of awakening all the desires,
hearts or not,
but our own...
The longings and dreams;
the hopes and doubts.
We unleashed
storms,
because they are never lacking
as a garnish to passions,
and then, very quickly,
we drive away the black clouds
from all our horizons.
The willows of the park.
are still there,
though some branches are missing,
and the marks left by your hands,
in those unforgettable encounters,
are so high
that only the wind can read them.
I say no more, it is not necessary.
You know every inch of my path,
of your path.
Its curves and straight lines;
above all,
those hollows that hinder walking.
So, it only remains for me to tell you:
"See you tomorrow, love."
Introducción.
Escribir sobre el amor es difícil, muy difícil, pero siempre posible, porque cada quién siente y ama a su manera. Y todo puede ser objeto y objetivo para amar. Pero en ésto hay excepciones: Es imposible amar la guerra, o cualquier cosa derivada de ella; incluyo la muerte, aunque sea parte inseparable de la vida. Es mejor amar la vida con sus mejores propósitos; es ahí cuando se hace imperecedera esa palanca que debería ser imprescindible para poner en movimiento cada átomo de este mundo nuestro. Por esta razón, en la cual creo fervientemente, están aquí, mis humildes "POEMAS SIN MÁRGENES"
POEMA XIV
📝
Dedicado a quien me ha ayudado a cargar con la cruz...
The design, photography, cover, and edition of this post are my authorship. // La edición, fotografía, portada, y diseño de este post son de mi autoría.★Photo Studio: com.kvadgroup.photostudio. Version: 2.6.2.1241 ★Translation: // Traducción: www.deepl.com
