Sunday, February 8, 2009

Yellow Raincoat

You came to me like the wind flowing, going
Where it wills, where it ends, where it blows steadily
You are like a breath of life, spontaneous and free
A kindred spirit brought home to me

You’re like a flower on the road swaying, swimming
In a sea of debris, holding on wearily
You are like the rain in summer, kiss of lemon on tea
A secret lover known only to me

Mmm... sweet as the sun in the morning
Mmm... soft as satin sheets in the evening

You’re the bright, shining Venus of my sky
Piny scent of Christmas in July
You’re the ribbon on the gift, the kite I’d love to fly
The yellow raincoat I wear to keep me dry
So don’t you even try
Don’t you go and say goodbye
Don’t you leave me here to cry

You came to me like a song playing, ringing
In my ears, with melodies from a lifetime of tears
You are like an emerald butterfly – floating in the breeze
A winged being, softly singing to me

You’re like the sea in the dark, brooding, moving
Silently, caressingly, where the sand meets the sea
You are like the endless rustling of the leaves on the trees
A mystery revealed solely to me

Mmm... sweet as the sun in the morning
Mmm... soft as satin sheets in the evening

You’re the bright, shining Venus of my sky
Piny scent of Christmas in July
You’re the ribbon on the gift, the kite I’d love to fly
The yellow raincoat I wear to keep me dry
So don’t you even try
Don’t you go and say goodbye
Don’t you leave me here to cry

- completed today, February 8th, for Nel

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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