el rostro de tiempo

A cada metro, a cada instante,
hemos de aprender, de olvidar,
de reconsiderar algo.
El rostro jugando con sus expresiones,
la palabra con su sentido,
la corbadia con su heroismo
la soledad con su tumulto,
con este estira y encoge
en que el misterio de tiempo
nos deja su resaca,
su condicion violenta de ola en calma.
solo la rosa ve las manos de silencio.

La fuga

He perdido un amor,
un familiar,
el tiempo.

La vida es un continui
andar perdiendo
lo que tuvimos
y lo que tenemos.

Es una bolsa rota
en que ponemos
las monedas, las llaves,
y los suenos.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example, 'The night is starry
and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

It may not always be so; and I say

it may not always be so; and i say 
that if your lips, which i have loved, should touch 
another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch 
his heart, as mine in time not far away; 
if on another's face your sweet hair lay 
in such a silence as i know, or such 
great writhing words as, uttering overmuch, 
stand helplessly before the spirit at bay; 
if this should be, I say if this should be-- 
you of my heart, send me a little word;
that i may go unto him, and take his hands, 
saying, Accept all happiness from me. 
Then shall i turn my face,  and hear one bird 
sing terribly afar in the lost lands.

by e.e. cummings

Heart, we will forget him!
You and I, tonight!
You may forget the warmth he gave,
I will forget the light.

When you have done, pray tell me
That I my thoughts may dim;
Haste! lest while you're lagging.
I may remember him!

-- Emily Dickinson