Journal: For She
-------------------------------------------Mood: Feline
TIME THAT WASN'T LOST
Pablo Neruda
One doesn't count illusions
nor bitter realizations,
no measure exists to count
what couldn't happen for us,
what circled like a bumblebee,
without our not noticing
what we were losing.
To lose until we lose our life
is to live our life and our death,
and nothing that passes on exists
that doesn't give constant proof
of the continuous emptiness of all,
the silence into which everything falls
and, finally, we fall.
O! what came so close
that we were never able to know.
O! what was never able to be
that maybe could have been.
So many wings flew around
the mountains of sorrow
and so many wheels beat
the highway of our destiny,
we had nothing left to lose.
And our weeping ended.
...Created 2009-11-01 18:49:03 [ View Past Journals ] [ View as Blog ] |
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