“In what language does rain fall over tormented cities?”
“With which stars do they go on speaking,the rivers that never reach the sea?”
“Tell me, is the rose naked
or is that her only dress?
Why do trees conceal
the splendor of their roots?
Who hears the regrets
of the thieving automobile?
Is there anything in the world sadder
than a train standing in the rain?”
“Donde termina el arco iris,
en tu alma o en el horizonte?
Where does the rainbow end,
in your soul or on the horizon?”
“Sufre mas el que espera siempre
que aquel que nunca espero a nadie?
Does he who is always waiting suffer more than he who’s never waited for anyone?”
“ربما ماتت خجلاً
تلك القطارات التي أضاعت طريقها؟”
“من هلّلَ لولادة
اللون الأزرق؟
لماذا تحزن الأرض
حينما يظهر البنفسج؟”
“لماذا لا يدربون المروحيات على جني العسل من الشمس ؟”
“Si todos los rios son dulces
de donde saca sal el mar?
If all rivers are sweet
where does the sea get its salt?”
“ما الزهرة التي تطير
من عصفور إلى عصفور؟”
“لماذا تنتحر الأوراق
عندما تشعر بالإصفرار؟
لماذا تحلّق قبعة الليل
ملأى بالثقوب؟”
“هل يُحدِّث الدخانُ الغيوم؟
هل صحيح أن رغباتنا
يجب أن تروى بالندى؟”
“Como se reparten el sol en el naranjo las naranjas?
How do the oranges divide up sunlight in the orange tree?”
“What will they say about my poetry
who never touched my blood?
Que diran de mi poesia
los que no tocaron mi sangre?”
“هل يقاسي
الذي ينتظر دائماً
أكثر من الذي لم يجرب الانتظار ؟”
“كم عمرُ تشرين الثاني؟
لِم يُنفِق الخريف
كلَّ هذه النقود الصفر؟
ما اسم الكوكتيل الذي
يخلط الفودكا بسهام البرق؟”
“كيف نالت الدراجة
المهجورة حريتها؟
هل ينفع الملح والسكر
في بناء برج أبيض؟
هل صحيح أنّ الأحلام
في قرية النمل واجب؟
هل تعلم ماذا تتأمّل الأرض في الخريف؟”
“وعلى من يبتسم الرز
بأسنانه البيض اللامتناهية؟
لماذا يكتبون في العصور المظلمة
بحبرٍ خفي؟
هل يعرف جمال كراكاس
كم تنورةً للوردة؟
لماذا تلسعني البراغيث
ورقباء الأدب؟”
“كم نحلةً في اليوم؟
هل السلامُ سلامَ الحَمام؟
هل يشنّ النمر حرباً؟
لماذا يُعلّم الأستاذ
جغرافية الموت؟
ماذا يحدث للسنونوات
المتأخرات عن المدرسة؟
وهل صحيح أنّها تنثر
رسائل شفافة على السماء؟”
“كيف تُفرِّق البرتقالات
أشعة الشمس على الشجرة؟”
“حُب، حبّه وحبها،
فإذا ذهبا، أين يذهب الحب؟
أمس، بالأمس سألت عيوني،
متى يرى أحدنا الآخر؟
وعندما تغيران المنظر،
فبيدين عاريتين، أم بقفازين؟”
“Sufre más el que espera siempre
Que aquel que nunca esperó a nadie?”
“Dónde van las cosas del sueño?
Se van al sueño de otros?”
“Como se acuerda con los pajaros
la traduccion de sus idiomas?
How is the translation of their languages
Arranged with the birds?”
“Hay una estrella mas abierta
que la palabra 'amapola'?
Is there a star more wide open
than the word 'poppy"?”
“Is there anything in the world sadder
than a train standing in the rain?”
“Why wasn't Christopher Columbus able to discover Spain?”
“Here is the solitude from which you are absent.
It is raining. The sea wind is hunting stray gulls.
The water walks barefoot in the wet streets. From that tree the leaves complain as though they were sick.
White bee, even when you are gone, you live in my soul. You live again in time, slender and silent.
Ah, you who are silent.”
“We face up to awful things because we can't go around them, or forget them. The sooner you say 'Yes, it happened, and there's nothing I can do about it,' the sooner you can get on with your own life. You've got children to bring up. So you've got to get over it. What we have to get over, somehow we do. Even the worst things.”
“Someone once wrote that musicians are touched on the shoulder by God, and I think it's true. You can make other people happy with music, but you can make yourself happy too. Because of my music, I have never known loneliness and never been depressed.”
“For my entire life I longed for love. I knew it was not right for me — as a girl and later as a woman — to want or expect it, but I did, and this unjustified desire has been at the root of every problem I have experienced in my life.”
“But... what about us? What about the past?" she asks blankly.
"The past isn't real. it's just a dream," I say. "Don't mention the past.”
“--and then you're in serious trouble, very serious trouble, and you know it, finally, deadly serious trouble, because this Substance you thought was your one true friend, that you gave up all for, gladly, that for so long gave you relief from the pain of the Losses your love of that relief caused, your mother and lover and god and compadre, has finally removed its smily-face mask to reveal centerless eyes and a ravening maw, and canines down to here, it's the Face In The Floor, the grinning root-white face of your worst nightmares, and the face is your own face in the mirror, now, it's you, the Substance has devoured or replaced and become you, and the puke-, drool- and Substance-crusted T-shirt you've both worn for weeks now gets torn off and you stand there looking and in the root-white chest where your heart (given away to It) should be beating, in its exposed chest's center and centerless eyes is just a lightless hole, more teeth, and a beckoning taloned hand dangling something irresistible, and now you see you've been had, screwed royal, stripped and fucked and tossed to the side like some stuffed toy to lie for all time in the posture you land in. You see now that It's your enemy and your worst personal nightmare and the trouble It's gotten you into is undeniable and you still can't stop. Doing the Substance now is like attending Black Mass but you still can't stop, even though the Substance no longer gets you high. You are, as they say, Finished. You cannot get drunk and you cannot get sober; you cannot get high and you cannot get straight. You are behind bars; you are in a cage and can see only bars in every direction. You are in the kind of a hell of a mess that either ends lives or turns them around.”
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