Pablo Neruda

Lost in the forest, I broke off a dark twig
and lifted its whisper to my thirsty lips:
maybe it was the voice of the rain crying,
a cracked bell, or a torn heart.

Something from far off it seemed
deep and secret to me, hidden by the earth,
a shout muffled by huge autumns,
by the moist half-open darkness of the leaves.

Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig
sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance
climbed up through my conscious mind

as if suddenly the roots I had left behind
cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood—
and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent.

Random Thoughts

Perhaps there is an idyllic world I do not know of.

Where love does not possess and hatred does not sting.

Perhaps it is idyllic made up of and for Beauty. Perhaps that is why I trample into it, uninvited.

The unwanted guest in the feast of life.

But is not trampling the only thing I have seen or felt or heard?

It is like waking up one fine morning to find strange footprints on your kitchen floor. Last night, you had your dinner at the kitchen table.  Just in a night, your kitchen has become someone else’s.

Someone else who was not a guest.

Trampling into private beings.

Trampling into certain thoughts.

Walking all over the soul, like they say.

How quickly we forget the lessons of childhood: Speak less. Play more. Be shy.

Perhaps this is how water feels when ripples rock her. They cannot change her, nor irk her, but she is in unrest, in turmoil. How do you catch thieves of thoughts red-handed? How do you tell them, ‘let me be’ ?

My dreams are not on display. They are still young.

My soul still smiles-occasionally. How doyou make sure its smiles are not lost in floods of joy?

Perhaps that is why I still cannot believe in an idyllic world…