Si yo me atrevo
A mirar y a decir
Es por su sombra,
Unida tan suave
A mi nombre,
Alla lejos
En mi memoria,
Por su rostro
Que ardiendo en mi
Poema
Dispersa
Hermosamente
Un perfume
A amado rostro desaparecido.
If I dare
To look or speak
It’s because of her shadow,
United so softly
To my name,
Far away in the rain
Of my memory,
Or her face,
Which burns in my
Poem.
She beautifully disperses
An odor
Of a beloved vanishing face.
Él me dijo que no podría ver mi cara en sus sueños. No sé que lo significa, pero despues de leí su poema, me sentía un gran sentido de la pérdida. Este puedo entender bien. Pero de esto, pensé:
What is Sadness,
But an opportunity to know joy?
What is Loss,
But a chance to cherish what once you had?
What is Death,
But the gift of one full life?
What is Fear,
But adherence to what you care for.
What is a Nightmare,
But the capacity to dream?
What is Regret,
But the appreciation of longing?
What is Hate,
But a stepping stone to love?
What is Anger,
But an outlet for that which has touched you deeply?
What is Blame,
But an attempt to uplift oneself?
What is Doubt,
But the incentive to hope?
I felt his absence as he, I’m sure, felt mine. My shame left me restless many nights—tossing and turning with guilt—but slowly I began to mend myself, to piece together what had been wrought apart by my own conscience.
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