KloeMontiel

Seeing you again was not only a light and constant effort, but to tie, in the soul, a thread of broken dream. Seeing you again was dark the feeling I had to find you alien and yet continue to believe that you were mine. Seeing you again was the miracle of a sweet convalescence when everything, with the naked soul, becomes more beautiful from the absence. We'll see each other after the impenetrable night of the abyss, it was to find in your eyes an old image of myself. And find, in a deep past, more beautiful and better days, like this letter in the folds of which some flowers are preserved Seeing you again showed me the sadness that is frozen, like a beautiful afternoon mist, in the blue of your gaze. And, you see, from the long journey I come back purer and stronger, because I slept all night on death's knees. Because I looked into your eyes a paradise of past things, as in the water of the caves you see enchanted cities. And because I saw your clear image, between a halo of serene light, as never before, in the eyes of mortals. Earth vision appeared.. Seeing you again was dark the feeling I had to find you stranger, and yet keep believing that you were mine

Hey, we'll be sad, my sweet lady. No one will know the secret of this sweet sadness. Sad as this valley that begins to darken, sad as the twilight of a season's end. Our sadness will have a little pride more, like this light carmine of your beauty, and together we will weep, without tears, your highness of dreams that we kill sterilely one day. Hey, we'll be sad, with a sadness wandering from far parks, dead cities, night ports whose lighthouse goes out. And so, in the autumn, quietly united, you will relive your old vanities and I the posthumous glory of my lost triumphs Everything has passed like a brief shadow of a bird crossing the firmament. Eternity has passed in an instant, and the treacherous memory no longer names you. Only the heart groans and wonders at the reality of its torment: Dark night, lightning and wind, and a mantle of leaves that lines the path! But until yesterday, nothing, you were life, light of the past, support of the future, rudder of the soul and bandage of the wound. Today I think of you, my beautiful distant love, remembered, on the hard bed, the summer night dream

I am the blue water of the mountain, I was born in a breach in the wild bush and I have not even a froth of courage Even my glass does not deceive the traveler. I do not overflow with roaring rage nor do I direct the journey to vast seas; I only copy the tones of the landscape and only the orchards bathe my stream. And humble and silent, my destiny It's to be good and kind; to be pure water through the grass of the road. Run nameless, suffer losses, and die one night in the thicket how your best songs died Far eyes that in my impatience I wait, eyes that a breath of sadness clouds, you are to me like the last star on the calm blue of a mountain. You didn't look at me and in silence I love you: a gentle contempt that doesn't hurt the illusion. I learned to live for what I die for, like waiting for what deceives me the most. Confidential hour of my sadness! Now under the kiss of the icy afternoon, the golden mountain begins to gray. And I call you from afar, eyes that cry 'cause around her I felt like a coward to tell you that I loved you so much

I thank you for that peace that came into my existence, as I left the night when I was, because of your revenge, blind. Thank you for the calm vision you gave to my consciousness in the calm, for the childhood that appears in my student and the great joy that exalts my soul. Thank you for the light mercy with which I move among things, which moves the hand of a spinner in the midst of the luminous strands. Thank you for the serenity valley of light that is lost in my love, like the little hay leaf in the open expanse of a green field. O anguish! That on my chest you came to days of cruel labor, while the shadow around my bed It tangled its heavy hails down an hour like the drop of water in the cistern, and I burned my sinful forehead a red flash of internal fever. The lamp, which around spread its slight cold, It was the purple mouth of an oven fed with shoots in summer. And the familiar and attentive look, under the light of trembling blushes, weighed like a storm cloud on the fatigue of my poor eyes. fortified prison you were Oh night! When I left you, I wanted to see the autumn moon, big and golden, feel again the magnitude of the day. Today, when I come out into the world, after the painful captivity, I live with a deeper dream and a more serious sense of mystery

I feel hidden relationships, I hear unheard music and I receive secret vibrations from another earth, another sky and other lives. my heart holds all the joy of human life, just like the little leaf holds, in its green color, all summer. Oh my love! Your pure hand He also called after the fatal passion, and my dark life is open to the light like a blue room for a party. Nothing, nothing of ambition but this beneficial gift, realized in exchange for the glory, which I forgive, and my own name, which I have forgotten. Seraphic tomorrow, vessel of grace in which the light is enclosed, receive my prayer that is today sister of the infinite joy of the earth I will take you to my valley Muse of ice and pinewood, little sister of bears and the northern lights. I'll take you to my valley of the crystal cave where your long winter cradled the old father wolf. I'll take you to my valley it's already starting to wake up like a baby in a gaze of morning mist. You will see the clear spring on the fields touch up with soft gold and diaphane mother-of-pearl its light floral coat. You'll see the light that stops, like a shepherd to rest when the flute goes down the twilight hill

I will take you to my valley so that you can hear, in peace of the hills, the prayer of the angelic bell. My valley is so far away! They have already begun to cut for the happy and stable girls, the warm and maternal hay. The faithful cart will return with the star and a song in which there is the aroma of the bushes and the deep murmur of the wheat field. Life will be joyful and clear and next to the family well, what couples a year ago They'll have been able to talk. The blue smoke of the farms will trace its spiral, while the afternoon says goodbye like a boat on the sea. I'll take you to my valley Muse of ice and pine forest, little sister of bears and the northern lights You've finally forgotten me. What a sweet and deep forgetfulness! Behind the uncertain limit of our darkness of yesterday the star we both look at has descended like a sweet tear that breaks as it falls. And so I leave your knees sad, like one who abandons his field without wanting it, seeing that your eyes, like broken glass, They prolong the agony of an evening of idleness. You finally forgot me! Hidden sorrows: in the midst of the twilight that obscures a flight of leaves Shut up, so that this woman can pass. And I will listen later, in the blind night, to the mourning foot of the one who always comes on the trails of what never came back

Tu es une chanson. Light air hovering between flowers and nests. Sleep under your feet, flowery fields, and your hair is a real river. My life begins in you. you are my January that appears on the horizons planned; my region of known rivers, my high constellation of sailor. By my hands you go like a breeze; you wrap a garden in a sigh, and butterflies open in your laughter. You are the whole shadow, you are the light, and I, raising my heart, I long for you like the wind that comes from a summit Time of light, but of dreamed light, different from that earthly clarity that fills the abysses of space and lights up, in every ear of wheat, its dawn. Time of light, but of light veiled to the mortal who, in the serene cave, deciphers the sign of his long pain, at the birth of the decreed centuries. Time of light, but divine light, curdled in the inner horizons and that it illuminates other magnificent worlds. O light of eternity! very different from this light that is the sister of flowers, because it knows how to die so gently

Ashes accumulated on the ground where the embers of my life tremble; cloud that, with darkness mastered, It becomes a throne of light at dawn. Unfinished scale pedestal where dream comes to life; wing hanging above the torrent, iceberg of the starry night. It's you, confident pillow, that prepares me for the other dream The snow rolled around my forehead. That at the end, on the sky lit, I'll see the last design of the world In your white cup my muteness is stuck Oh, it's time! Oh time! the heart feels you but my senses don't perceive you. Under my feet you run silently, but you hit my forehead with fury. Is your current moving forward or backward? Will you remember it? Are you running to oblivion? I want to keep you, but you're already gone, I want to forget, but you're here. Sinking eternities is your glory. Your breath kills. Your virtue invents. You are a fable as much as a story. Your step between the stars slips, and from heaven and earth you make us know writing with dust and ashes

things leave us that when we extend them, they break, and others, for the most part, disappear halfway. Some pass like shadows in the air, like the morning steam that condenses in the grass. things leave us like ungrateful guests who enter, look, navigate, put aside a mirror here, There they pull a curtain, They hesitate in the rooms, They hesitate in the corridors, and finally, like ghosts, They win the street and are lost. things leave us and the soul, uninhabited, It does not even adapt to solitude, it does not get used to silence either. Until finally, after the daily escape of all things, filled with lost echoes his loneliness enemy Ice city, generating ghosts, which you squeeze with a clumsy and sleepy hand, the lazy and slow sheets of your mists. Circus of persistent clouds fighting, like heavy beasts, in a solemn simulation of mythological festivals. Nest of waves storm it sounds like rumors of aborted worlds in the cosmogonic attempts of creation. Frustrated symphony of thunder accompanies your afternoons gloomy and your mornings gray, in which it seems that you return to chaos. High hills, steep walls, They surround you. A frightening sun, like a soldier without a shield, fighting against the sky climbs them with fatigue, and begins to throw, on your earth walls, its useless profusion of frozen arrows. Old town, where only the towers emerge, girded with their quaternary humidity, to summon the ice ghosts to the dull sound of gloomy bells. You are the favorite place for the desolations of my soul, the cold esplanade to talk with my dead, the desert to communicate with my extinct stars

Five o'clock in the morning already rang, and I stand in front of the mountains that bend completely closing the horizon. There is a slight touch of light, something very similar to the tenderness that is rising, or the memory that is moving away. It is a kind of mystical enchantment which is not beatitude, but only frank announcement of human mercy. Such is the heaven in this pure hour in which the solemn forgiveness of the night erase all the defects of the earth. And before this imminent clarity I say to myself, trembling with omens: Will this promise also be fulfilled today? of light? This sacred pact to light the scene every earthly day, will it end this morning? What if darkness were decreed today? What if the sun had not come on time, late on one of the sidereal routes? And this worry, between childish and tragic, It absorbs me as I look at the horizon

How wide, bright, extraordinary, far more than a sea perspective, or what a vague desert horizon, years ago, you opened my eyes wall of existence, limited by four great suns, in the day, and by four stars, in the night. I was going to paint there, with my hand, a rainbow that stretched over the world and a milky way that split the sky, a big cloud for my hope and a huge ship for my conquests.. But as I reached the wall The ambitious space shrank, and the iris, the ship and the cloud They only correspond to a broken end, a long fringe twisted by the wind, and a useless paddle in the dry sand. Today, a few steps from this wall. –The illusion of the air will soon be broken– I find room only for a few symbols and a date, between a circle of shadow The cloud was an illusion of distance, and the ark was a ghost of the abyss, and the ship was a dream of foam, and the projection of the stars of the sky was a dream of the Milky way it had life only in my pupils. The truth, the truth was this circle, and this cross, and these palm trees and this date

of the creator of the palace of smoke who raised towers and domes in the desert, and filled the jungle with balconies; of the one who made the mythological beasts come out of the golden prison of the fable to dance on stage; of the clown and the prince that I knew how to wear, under my cape, to the surprise of the Of all that I have been: of the traveler who leads the roads and rivers of the earth, parallel to the course of its veins and the gentle observer of the red burn that warms the face of winter, and thaw, in the book of friends, the lazy flower of the metaphor. Of all that I have been: the ambiguous flutist who animated the immortal dialogues of another time, and the noisy musician who crushed his cops in the square so that the couriers could get up to the creator of the smoke palace who raised towers and domes in the desert, and filled the jungle with the sound of the flute. of balconies; of the one who made the mythological beasts come out of the golden prison of the fable and make them dance on stage; of the clown and the prince whom I knew how to carry, under my cape, to the surprise of the heavy masses; Of all that I have been: of the traveler who leads the roads and rivers of the earth, parallel to the course of its veins and the gentle observer of the red burn that warms the face of winter, and thaw, in the book of friends, the lazy flower of the metaphor. Of all that I have been: the ambiguous flutist who animated the immortal dialogues of another time, and the noisy musician who crushed his cops in the square so that the couriers could get carried away

Of all that I have been: of the universal man I coveted to accomplish, in vain, by extending to the four sides of life all the branches of my being, and, sometimes, giving, in a single flower, all the strength, and all the virtue of a perfume. Of all that I have been: the excited king – paper crown, reed scepter – that I have pretended to embody, among the people, with no other kingdom than the hard stone where I have laid my feet, nor any other exercise of power. Let it calm with constant tears; from the random beggar that others were I was modest among the hails, the perfect glory of having stolen my stream of stars at night and in any stream; Of all I've been: cloud builder