A hauntingly beautiful poem. The imagery of a "living sigh" and a "letter in time" speaks to the lasting impact of those who have gone, as though their essence lingers in the elements. The wind stave is a lovely metaphor for how their presence is carried through the natural world, still whispering through time.
It yields like wheat to the wind while the oak was cut down by the lightning
I know how soft that remains I know, the egg that does not grow for when the shell is gone the seed is dispersed in a multitude of ways almost all of them ‘invisible’.
When you remember those who are gone the hugs are stuck like sponge pins in your heart like sponge pins in your soul. Be a collector of souls, for only in the invisible world the Eternal remains and is recorded in the intangible the essence of presence
Eternity that remains, in the collective unconscious, the Universal, of what we have lived what we leave behind y what we have become. we have become.
Las notas musicales en el pentagrama del verso son la clave de sol de la ausencia.
ResponderEliminarUn beso.
Pues todas las ausencias son
Eliminaragujeros vacíos
se llenan con rayos de sol
que queman, como rayo aserrado,
nuestro corazón
Entre nota y nota
llegan llorando
(bendito vecindario)
las corcheas y blancas
que se van sumando
(bonito sudario)
Réquiem de plañideras
a partituras postreras.
Suspiro
ResponderEliminarcuando te leo.
En prosa
y en verso.
Besos.
Suspiras
Eliminarporque respiras
y entre cada veso y verso
un beso
;)
A hauntingly beautiful poem. The imagery of a "living sigh" and a "letter in time" speaks to the lasting impact of those who have gone, as though their essence lingers in the elements. The wind stave is a lovely metaphor for how their presence is carried through the natural world, still whispering through time.
ResponderEliminarIt yields like wheat to the wind
Eliminarwhile the oak was cut down by the lightning
I know how soft
that remains
I know, the egg that does not grow
for when the shell is gone
the seed is dispersed in a multitude of ways
almost all of them ‘invisible’.
When you remember those who are gone
the hugs are stuck like sponge pins in your heart
like sponge pins in your soul.
Be a collector of souls,
for only in the invisible world
the Eternal remains and is recorded
in the intangible
the essence of presence
Eternity
that remains,
in the collective unconscious,
the Universal, of what we have lived
what we leave behind
y
what we have become.
we have become.