Saturday, March 29, 2008

Slow Dance

You looked up at me
With eyes that mirrored
The painful reality
Of what was to be

Tears of bitterness
Were waiting to fall
And I was there waiting
To catch them all

Then our music started playing
It was the first song of the evening
But we both knew what was true
It was the anthem of an ending long overdue

How can we dance and then pretend
Follow the music that leads to the end
How do we embrace and say we didn’t try
How do we dance the slow dance of goodbye

Locked in a dance
We were in a trance
Spoke of love so pure
But the future was sure

When the first tear fell
Your pain I felt
I could no longer keep in step
So I held you and wept

Then our music started playing
It was the first song of the evening
But we both knew what was true
It was the anthem of an ending long overdue

How can we dance and then pretend
Follow the music that leads to the end
How do we embrace and say we didn’t try
How do we dance the slow dance of goodbye

If this is really the end
For the last time let me hold your hand
Let’s let this final moment stand
And love while we still can

How can we dance and then pretend
Follow the music that leads to the end
How do we embrace and say we didn’t try
How do we dance the slow dance of goodbye

- reworked into a song from an old poem at the poetry site, written originally for Cynthia, completed March 28

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The Chronicler's Creed

Where there's water and sun, where there are friends to see or new people to meet, where there's something new to learn, experience, or do, where there's life, there I will be.

LA POESÍA

Y fue a esa edad... Llegó la poesía
a buscarme. No sé, no sé de dónde
salió, de invierno o río.
No sé cómo ni cuándo,
no, no eran voces, no eran
palabras, ni silencio,
pero desde una calle me llamaba,
desde las ramas de la noche,
de pronto entre los otros,
entre fuegos violentos
o regresando solo,
allí estaba sin rostro
y me tocaba.

And it was at that age... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I do not know, I do not know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I do not know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

- An excerpt from LA POESÍA (Poetry) by Pablo Neruda