Mystique

There he was
Staring at another time
Shadows hovering over his eyes

His fingers moved
To a beat only he could hear

He took a drag from his cigarette
A sigh escaped his lips
It was almost silent

She could feel..
The intense nostalgia of his thoughts.
They were far from her,
Thirty years worth of time.

She could reach out
In a second
Touch his face
She refrained.
He’s not here.

What is it he once said?
Mysteries are better than realities.
She agreed
Mysteries…
You ache to touch them.

As she sat there, bemused by his presence
Endless words came rushing to her mind
She slowed them down
That night.. they were useless

She looked at him
Smiled.

Hes made of

A thousand

Melancholic

Pieces

Of music…

 

And yet..

Pablo Neruda

“Poetry”

And it was at that age …

Poetry arrived in search of me.

 I don’t know, I don’t know where

it came from..

from winter or a river.

I don’t know how or when,

no, they were not voices,

they were not words,

nor silence,

but from a street I was summoned,

from the branches of night,

abruptly from others,

among violent fires

or returning alone,

there I was without a face

and it touched me.
(…)
And I, tiny being,

drunk with the great starry

void,

likeness, image of

mystery,

felt myself a pure part of the abyss.

I wheeled with the stars,

my heart broke loose on the wind.