The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.
Tonight I Can Write The Saddest Lines, Pablo Neruda
Dear lover, there is no need
for you to tell me, again and
again that the night is
shattered . There are pieces
of it on the floor, the crumbs
of your leave heading for
the slam of the door. Shaking
the house, gently. Echoes, only
a broken record: the voice
breaks, at that crack
before the revelation: I no longer
love her, so suddenly, but maybe
I love her and again no longer —
gibberish. There is dirt on the surface.
I could not wipe it off.
The poem could not end itself.
Dear lover, what nights we have
known: all the truths we have
thrown away to make way
for the ones we could own.
Nothing about shivering
stars, pale moons, imagined
heavens , endless skies — none
of those, only versions of hell.
Where wars are lost
when heroes leave,
the white flag raised
then torn to bits. Oh, it is
all so simple: sometimes
I loved, and then
sometimes I did not.
When the rest of the world refuse to.
We held each other in our arms,
blue stars shiver in the distance.
They lie when they say, dear
lover, I cannot have you.
The night is shattered.
Souls are not satisfied.
We are lost to this world, too.