My dead husband enters the home
To read the letters of love.
He remembers the box, made of oak,
With the lock, very secret and odd,
And spreads through a floor the stroke
Of his feet in the iron bond.
He watches the times of the meetings
And the signatures’ blurry set.
Hasn’t had he sufficiently grievings
And pains in this word until that?
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A widow in black — the crying fall
While her man’s words are clearly recalled,She will not stop her lamentations loud.It will be so, until the snow puffWill give a mercy to the pined and tired.Forgetfulness of suffering and love —Though paid by life — what more could be desired?
In human closeness there is a secret edge,
Let lips with lips be joined in silent rage,And hearts be burst asunder with the love.And friendship, too, is powerless plot,And so years of bliss with noble tends,When your heart is free and known not,The slow languor of the earthy sense.And they who strive to reach this edge are mad,But they who reached are shocked…
The two of us won’t share a glass together
We won’t be kissing, in the morning eitherNor, late at night, enjoy an evening shine…You breathe the sun, I breathe the moon; howeverWe are united by one love forever.I always have with me my true soul mate,You have with you your ever-merry girlfriend;Yet I’m acquainted with your eye’s dismayAs you’re the reason of my lifelong…
We do not carry it in lockets on the breast,
It does not wake us from the bitter rest,And does not seem to us like Eden promised.In our hearts, we never try to treatThis as a subject for the bargain row,While being ill, unhappy, spent on it,We even fail to see it or to know.Yes, this dirt on the feet suits us fairly,Yes, this crunch…
Lying in me, as though it were a white
Memory that I cannot, will not, fight:It is happiness, and it is pain.Anyone looking straight into my eyesCould not help seeing it, and could not failTo become thoughtful, more sad and quietThan if he were listening to some tragic tale.I know the gods changed people into things,Leaving their consciousness alive and free.To keep alive the…
You, who was born for poetry’s creation,
Though, maybe, our Poetry, itself,Is just a single beautiful citation.