Friday, July 29, 2005

when i was quite ill a few years back, i wrote down what i wanted for my wake, no funeral, no viewing, a cremation and a party. the plans were lost in a flood. i haven't felt the need to write anything down yet, to rewrite or change plans. it doesn't much matter to me anymore other than my ashes are scattered in a beautiful woods and that this be my funeral poem, tho no one will be there to read it. i love neruda. this poem, it really has special meaning . KNOW.



Tonight I Can Write




Tonight I can write the saddest lines.


Write, for example, ' the night is starry

and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance'




The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.




Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.





Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.

I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.


She loved me, sometimes i loved her too.

How could one not have loved her great still eyes.




Tonight,I can write the saddest lines.

To think that i do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.



To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.

And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.




What does it matter that my love could not keep her.

The night is starry and she is not with me.




This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.

My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.




My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.

My heart looks for her and she is not with me.




The same night whitening the same trees.

We, of that time, are no longer the same.



I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.

My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.



Another's, she will be another's. As she was before my kisses.

Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.




Because through nights like this one i held her in my arms

my soul is not satisfied that i lost her.


Though this be the last pain she makes me suffer

and these the last verses that I write for her.





pablo neruda,


from the book, TWENTY LOVE SONGS AND A SONG OF DESPAIR



no, i think it better left unread at my funeral, but held in someone's, heart.

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