I wish you come to me in a winter evening, and close together behind the windows, watching the seclusion of the dark streets and freezing, recalling the winter of stories, where you lived together without knowing it.
For the same paths because we spent enchanted you and I, with timid steps, we went through the forests full of wolves, the same geniuses we watched clumps of moss hanging from the towers, including flutter of crows.
Together, without knowing it, beyond perhaps both looked towards the mysterious life, which we aspettava.Ivi quivered in us for the first time crazy and tender wishes. "Do you remember?" We tell each other, and joining gently in the warm room, and you smiled at me daran gloomy sound confident while outside the plates shaken by the wind.
But you - now I remember - do not know the old fables of kings nameless orcs and enchanted gardens. Never didst pass, kidnapped, under the magical trees that speak with a human voice, nor Battesti never desert the castle gate, nor walked in the night to the light far away, nor will addormentasti under the stars of the East, rocked by sacred canoe. Behind the glass in the winter night, probably we will remain silent, I lose myself in a fairy tale death, you in other treatments unknown to me. I would ask "Do you remember?" But you do not remember.
I would walk with you, one spring day, with the gray sky and a few old leaves of the first dragged through the streets by the wind, in the suburbs, and that it was Sunday. Often arise in these districts and large melancholy thoughts, and in hours dates vague poetry joining the hearts of those who love.
born also hope that you do not know how to say, favored by the endless horizon behind the homes, fleeing from the train, the clouds of the north. We'll just go with the hand and light step, saying something foolish, stupid and expensive. As long as you switch on the lights and the squalid tenements of the city left the stories come out, adventures, the cherished novels. And then we will be silent, still holding hands, because souls can speak without words.
But you - I remember now - never told me things senseless, stupid and expensive. Nor can I say then love those Sundays, or your soul can speak to my silent, recognizing the right time the spell of the city, nor the hopes that descend from the north. Do you prefer the lights, the crowd, people who look at you, the streets where they say they can meet their luck. You're different from me and if i went for a walk that day, you complain of being tired, only this and nothing else.
I would also like to go with you in the summer in a remote valley, constantly laughing at the simplest things, exploring the secrets of the woods, dirt roads, some of the abandoned houses. Stop at the wooden bridge watching the water pass, listen to telegraph poles in the long history that is endlessly from one end of the world and will never go nowhere. And rip out lawns and flowers here, lying on the grass, in the silence of the sun, to contemplate the depths of the sky and white clouds that pass and the mountain tops.
you would say "That's nice." Anything else you say because we would be happy, having lost the body weight of years, the souls become fresh, as if they were born then. But you - now that I think - you look around you without understanding, I'm scared and worried you'll stop to look for socks, I would ask another cigarette impatient to return.
And you would not say "That's nice, but other poor things do not matter to me. Unfortunately, because you done so. And we would not be happy even for a moment. I would also - let me say - I would like to arm yourself with the major cross streets of the city in a dusk of November, when the sky is made of pure crystal. When the ghosts of life run over the domes and touch the black people at the bottom of the pit roads, already filled with anxiety. When old memories and new blessed omens go over the ground, leaving behind a kind of music.
With the arrogance of white children look at the faces of others, thousands and thousands, that we spend next to rivers. We will send you unknowingly the light of joy and all will be forced to watch, not to envy and malice, but smiling a little, with a feeling of goodness, because of the night that heals the man's weaknesses. But you - I understand it well - instead of looking at the crystal sky and the air colonnades beaten the extreme sun, you'll want to stop and look at the windows, the gold, riches, silks, petty things. And then you'll see ghosts, or of that switching, or you feel like me calling fate proud. Neither udresti that kind of music, or you would understand why people look at us with kind eyes.
You think of your poor tomorrow and unnecessarily upon you the golden statues on pinnacles rise up their swords to the last rays. And I'd be alone. It's useless. Maybe all this is nonsense, and you better than me, do not assume so much from life. Maybe you're right and it would be stupid groped. But at least, that's true at least, I would like to see you again. Whatever happens, we'll be together somehow, and find joy. No matter whether by day or night, summer or autumn, in an unknown country, in a bare house, in a dingy inn.
I Just having you near. I will not here to listen - I promise - the mysterious creaking of the roof, or watch the clouds, I will not listen to the music or the wind. Give up these useless things, that I also love. I will have patience if you do not understand what I say, if you talk to me, strange facts, if you complain of old clothes and money. There will be no so-called poetry, common hopes, the sadness that friends love. But I'll close.
And we'll see, to be quite happy, quite simply, a man with a woman only, as usually happens in the world. But you - now I think about it - you are too far away, hundreds and hundreds kilometers difficult to cross. You're in a life that I do not know, and the other men you are close, which probably smile like me in the past. And it did not take long because you forget about me. Perhaps you just can not remember my name. I have now came from you, confused between the many shadows. Yet I can not think of you, and I like to say these things.
0 comments:
Post a Comment