Whitman and Lu

The other day, Lu came up with a sudden piece of text which I will, without her permission, translate and transcript here:

"Green is what gives you hope, what makes you breath and feel the little fairies that grass carries away, caressing your cheeks while its color, its aroma, its passion, flow in your veins. Green is your blood now, green like the river of your tears, green is your life because a sigh of reality has been stuck in it."

Lu and her words made me think of Walt Whitman and his Leaves of Grass. I am going to read it.

(after ten minutes: Ok, I read Walt, and you know what, I'm too tired to take the effort to understand him. I am going to bed.)

Love and friendship

Where does friendship end, and where does love begin? The opposite is easy to tell: we know when love ends, and when friendship begins. Or do we?

Come on, leave a comment. Are you reading, kel? Long time I don't see any comment from you!

Mentiras

Creo que me di cuenta esta tarde, después de estar tumbado bajo el sol. He mentido mucho, últimamente, en este blog. He mentido tanto que he llegado a creerme. Ahora, ando perdido otra vez. Pero sé que, por lo menos, ya no ando perdido en el camino equivocado.

Llegó la hora de tomar las riendas del caballo otra vez. Llegó la hora de decirte adiós, y buscar al ángel verdadero. El ángel que nos hace sentir felices en la senda equivocada. El ángel que nos hace olvidar que existen las sendas. Tú me entiendes, torj, ¿verdad?

Roses

The wasted purple of a waste rose is the colour I see when I look at the roses I once gave you. Remember? You couldn't bring them back home, so I dried them and kept them in my room. Now, if I touch the roses the petals will break apart. Like my soul, when I touch you.

El púrpura gastado de una rosa gastada es el color que veo cuando miro a las rosas que una vez te di. Recuerdas? No podías llevártelas a casa, así que las sequé y se quedaron en mi habitación. Ahora, si toco la rosa los pétalos se romperan en pedazos. Como mi alma, cuando te toco.

Beauty

"Beauty is a form of genius - is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great facts in the world like sunlight, or springtime, or the reflection in dark water of that silver shell we call the moon."

I completely agree with this sentence by Oscar Wilde (who else could write something like that?)

Beauty is the only reason of my life. Beauty, and maybe love, if love is not a form of beauty. I am talking about the beauty you can feel, not the beauty you can just see: I am talking, for example, about the beauty of your eyes when you look at me and I see a million of colours, of hopes and lost opportunities. When I see the blue of your soul breaking down in little pieces, and the green of your happiness inviting me to hug you to the deepest essence of your body. The black of your cry and the brown of your sadness when I say goodbye at the airport. The grey of a stormy tuesday in spring, the wasted purple of a wasted rose.

That silver shell we call the moon.