De tu ingenua boca,
filósofa, romántica, bohemia,
nacen rosas rojas
y canciones como besos.
De tus finos brazos,
cariñosos, decididos, honestos,
fluyen ríos caudalosos
y poemas como abrazos.
De tus tiernos ojos
emana toda la verdad de este mundo.
Los pájaros cantan,
un soplo de aire mueve tus cabellos
y los hace danzar.
Las hojas de un gran sauce llorón
son el fondo de nuestro cuadro viviente.
Entre el tímido murmullo del río
y el atrevido grito de tu mirada,
pasan los minutos y consigo
olvidarme de mi presencia.
También me olvido
del sauce llorón al fondo.
Solo existes tú.
Existen
tu ingenua boca,
tus finos brazos
y tus tiernos ojos.
Y, en un descuido, descubro
el sabor de tu ingenua boca,
el calor de tus finos brazos
y me invade toda la verdad de este mundo
aunque hayamos cerrado los ojos.
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It's never quite right, he said, the way people look,
the way the music sounds, the way the words are
written.
It's never quite right, he said, all the things we are
taught, all the loves we chase, all the deaths we
die, all the lives we live,
they are never quite right,
they are hardly close to right,
these lives we live
one after the other,
piled there as history,
the waste of the species,
the crushing of the light and the way,
it's not quite right,
it's hardly right at all
he said.
don't I know it? I
answered.
I walked away from the mirror.
it was morning, it was afternoon, it was
night
nothing changed
it was locked in place.
something flashed, something broke, something
remained.
I walked down the stairway and
into it.
-Charles Bukowski.
the way the music sounds, the way the words are
written.
It's never quite right, he said, all the things we are
taught, all the loves we chase, all the deaths we
die, all the lives we live,
they are never quite right,
they are hardly close to right,
these lives we live
one after the other,
piled there as history,
the waste of the species,
the crushing of the light and the way,
it's not quite right,
it's hardly right at all
he said.
don't I know it? I
answered.
I walked away from the mirror.
it was morning, it was afternoon, it was
night
nothing changed
it was locked in place.
something flashed, something broke, something
remained.
I walked down the stairway and
into it.
-Charles Bukowski.
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