SusanVolt

A single man, a woman taken like that, a couple They are like dust, they are nothing. But when I talk to you when I write these words I think also aux autres. Your destiny is in others Your future is your own vine Your dignity is that of each. Others hope you will resist that your joy helps them your song among his songs. Alors-tu te souviens toujours of what I've written a day in train of thinking to you comme je le pense maintenant. Never give in or turn away on the side of the road, never say I can't anymore and I stay here. Life is beautiful, you will see comme malgré les regrets your aura of l'amour, your aura des amis. Otherwise there's no choice and this world as it is It'll be all your assets Forgive me, I don't know how to tell you nothing more but you understand I'm always on the road. And you always remember what I wrote one day.

You can 't go back because life has already pushed you like a hurling without end.. with the joy of men than to cry in front of the blind wall. You will feel like you're lost or alone.. I know very well what they'll tell you that life has no purpose what is miserable. Alors-tu te souviens toujours of what I've written a day Je pense à toi comme je le pense maintenant. Life is beautiful, you will see it like a regret your aura of friends, your aura of love

The sun wanted to shine in ancient times Beyond the radiant face of a star And when it set its lightning on the earth It found that there was a very beautiful girl. And while traveling the whole Earth, contemplating all this great beauty, embracing the flowers of your sweet caress, he tasted its immense canopy of sweetness. And when we compare the flowers with the girl He found that none of them were so pretty Not even the lilies, fuchsias and allelíes And that's why he gave her the name Martita

And Martita grew up very fast. In pursuit of elusive butterflies Flying already in the transparent air Or stopped in the corolla of roses. He ran barefoot on the field I picked up the pebbles from the estuary I gazed at the beauty of the afternoon And he did his work carefully. He made the villa his playground He conquered the height of the cherry and pear trees He enjoyed the shade of the palm and apple tree He danced to the rhythm of the breeze and the wheat field. And he rode his horse always fiery When she stopped being a girl, she was a little girl And he would leave for the city in an instant To buy a bra or a pill. And if a great sorrow overtook him And he needed a good protection Or just when you felt sad he would play at Don Genaro's forge

Until one day among so many, any day Surely a Sunday morning He saw a boy of honey and good looking While she looked out the window. And love came with its immense charm Love came with its joys and its torments He devoted himself to it with all his senses With his days, his hours and his moments. And to the charm of mutual love Under the effect of its overwhelming strength He gave up his luxurious and simple life And being almost a child, she became a lady. That's how God wanted it, that's how it should have been What God allows, man doesn't refute Even if everyone opposed it And a familiar debate was generated

Beyond all our celestial skies where the sun shines on a black background There was a very beautiful little princess who walked on a land of flowery fields. Princesses born on distant planets, temperate character in hours of solitude They are taught by tutors with stern faces to love beauty and to speak softly. One day in the morning, when I was praying, stretching out its dawn before the altar, a fragrant, refined message arrived, wrapped in a sigh of real presence

"I am the little prince of this story As he humbly longs to have your love, that in the middle of a small planet grows, for you, the most beautiful flower. Come to me, my spoiled little princess come here, adorable little princess what I want most in life is that you always be my beloved. We will travel together the sidereal directions, We will visit a fox that lives in the desert, a snake will be the dearest friend, "We will enjoy the grass that grows in the open field." And one afternoon the princess set out on a journey. Could it be that she came riding a wandering kite, at the beginning of a great crystal laughter, or in the brightness of a morning star?

But in the huge distances of the sky the little princess just got lost He didn't find the place where the prince was waiting for him It was never his will, but it was his destiny. He set foot in a country at the end of the world with many rivers that flow down from the mountain, a large desert, a chain of mountains, beautiful lakes And a huge and very calm sea that bathes it. And he gave up on the journey back. seduced by the great beauty of a copihue that captivated her by its red fire color while hanging from the branch of a colihue. And the elders gave her a beautiful name that ends with ENE and begins with SEA chosen from so many other names as the cutest they could find. And the princess walks around places on earth planting very beautiful flowers all over their gardens, they always look in bloom and there are many others waiting to bloom

Beyond all our celestial skies where the sun shines on a black background There was a very beautiful little princess who walked on a land of flowery fields. Princesses born on distant planets, temperate character in hours of solitude They are taught by tutors with stern faces to love beauty and to speak softly. One day in the morning, when I was praying, stretching out its dawn before the altar, a fragrant, refined message arrived, wrapped in a sigh of real presence

I spoke about you to my humble heart, and although he refused to listen to me, I decided to speak to him forcefully, I told him that you were like an angel, so tender, so perfect. I told him that you were my most beautiful dream and my complete devotion.. I also warned him not to fall in love because looking at your face was like having happiness in front of him.. I told him not to think you were a lie because I would describe you as so beautiful or maybe better than a truth. In that I looked skeptical, because, I still believed nothing, so I showed him your name engraved in the most remote confines of my memory. I discovered that she is not beautiful like the roses, but that the roses are beautiful like her, and I told her that you were my insatiable craving... I told her that your eyes are not like stars but rather that the stars are beautiful, but only because they are like your eyes

Every year that passes Fewer birds are seen in the field The mornings are sadder They no longer bring joy with their singing. The beautiful crazy girls With its red breast Thrushes, thrushes and thrushes They hid in the bushes. There are no old pellines left Where the pitíos made their nests There are also no pigeons, doves The birds are all gone. The man with his shotgun The boy with his sling They hunt them for fun And even destroy their nests God created the little birds He gave them a gorgeous throat Of all the things they sing The voice of the little birds is beautiful. The kestrel, peuco, traro Of the little birds they are your enemy As they are also of man When they eat the wheat during the sowing. Never kill a little bird Maybe it has a nest And if they lack their mother, the offspring They're dying of hunger and cold. The most beautiful thing God created Where without drugs or They only praise the Lord. They eat worms and you can watch them They run and then they listen And so they can find them

And it was as if he had found his incentive, so I told him that if he knew a fine pearl.. Then he already frequented your teeth. I also told her that I don't know if she understood it, but since I started reading you, I haven't read any more poetry.. And by then my heart was like a child in the middle of a world full of sweets. And by then my heart was like a man kneeling before a divine majesty. And by then my heart for you was already clinging to life. Well, it's no coincidence that he's the one who asks about you today. He tells me to look for you and find you, that he has never felt a desire as intense and strong as the one he feels now to see you.. That being without you is living; So what better would he prefer to have you in an ephemeral moment, touch you and later die, touch you and later die, touch you and later die.. Because since I told him about you, you can now live in peace.. Because since I told him about you, the blood intoxicated him as if it were wine.. Because since I told him about you; He no longer finds another way. In that case, I say to my heart, friend, we live the same, because I vehemently wait for it

I love you when you're silent, when you're like absent, and you hear me from afar, and my voice doesn't touch you.. It seems like your eyes have gone and it seems like a kiss closes your mouth. as everything is filled with my soul you come out of things, full of my soul. dream butterfly, you look like my soul, and you look like the word melancholy. I love you when you're silent and distant. and you're like a butterfly that complains, that rocks. And you hear me from afar, and my voice does not reach you:. let me also speak to you with your silence clear as a lamp, simple as a ring. you are like the night, calm and starry. your silence comes from the stars, so far and so simple. I love you when you're silent because you're like absent. distant and painful as if you were dead. a word therefore, a smile is enough. And I'm glad, glad that it's not true

The thick and eternal fog, so that I forget where The sea threw me in its brine wave. The land where I came has no source: It has its long night that, like a mother, hides me. The wind makes my house its round of sobs and screaming, and breaks, like glass, my cry. And on the white plain, on the infinite horizon, I watch intense and painful sunsets die. Who can she call the one who came here? If only the dead were farther than her? They alone contemplate a calm and frozen sea! grow in your arms and your beloved arms! Les navires dont les voiles blanchissent dans le port Ils viennent de pays où ne sont pas ceux qui ne sont pas à moi; Leurs hommes aux yeux clairs ne connaissent pas mes rivières et ils portent des fruits pâles, sans la lumière de mes jardins. And the question that rises to my throat Watching them pass, I go down, defeated: They speak strange tongues and are not moved by the language that my poor mother sings in the lands of gold. I watch the snow come down like dust on the bones; I watch the fog grow like the dying, and to not go crazy I don't find the moments, because the long night is just beginning. I look at the plain in ecstasy and I collect his sorrow, which comes to see the murderous landscapes. Snow is the face that appears through my windows: It will always be its sap descended from heaven! Always she, silent, like the great gaze of God on me; always her orange blossom on my house; always, like the destiny that neither flows nor passes, will descend to cover me, terrible and ecstatic

And I'll go. And the birds will stay singing. And my garden will remain with its green tree, and with its white well. Every afternoon the sky will be blue and calm, and they will play, as they play this afternoon, the bells of the bell tower. Those who loved me will die and the city will become new every year; and far from the different, deaf, strange hustle Sunday closed, the car for five hours, naps to the toilet, in the secret corner of my flowery and whitewashed garden, my mind today will wander, nostalgic.. And I will leave, and I will be another, without a house, without a green tree, without a white well, without a blue and calm sky. And the birds will keep singing through the evergreen foliage. This hearing leaves strange rumors, And among a sea of waving greenery, Loving mansion of birds, From my windows I see The temple I loved so much. The temple I loved so much. Well, I can't say more if I love it, That in the hard it comes and goes, that without respite My thoughts are agitated, I doubt the sinister resentment Live united with love in my chest

To the old elm split by lightning and half rotten, with the April rains and the May sun some green leaves have grown. The ancient elm on the hill that the Duero licks! A yellowish moss stains the whitish bark with a dusty, moldy trunk. It won't be like the singing poplars that guard the path and the shore, inhabited by brown swallowtails. Army of ants in a row It climbs through it and in its bowels the spiders weave their gray webs. Before you fall, orme of the Duero, with his axe the lumberjack and the carpenter I turn you into bell hairs, cart spear or cart yoke; before the red at home, tomorrow, burning of a miserable hut, on the side of a road; before a whirlwind overwhelms you and makes you burst the breath before the river pushes you to the sea through the valleys and ravines, orme, I want to write in my wallet the grace of your green branch. my heart also waits, towards the light and towards life, another spring miracle

Your gesture is written in my soul, and how much I want to write about you; you alone wrote it, I read it It's just that I always hide it from you. I am and will always be there; that even if everything I see in you does not fit in me, it is so well what I do not understand I think, already taking faith as a budget. I was born only to love you; my soul has cut you to its size; By habit of the soul itself, I love you. All I have, I confess I owe you; For you I was born, for you I have life, For you I must die, and for you I die. The steps of a pilgrim are, wandering, How many verses the sweet Muse dictated to me In a confused solitude, Some lost, others were inspired. Or you who are prevented from throwing spears Fir walls, diamond crevices, You have beaten the mountains armed with snow The sky is afraid of the giants of crystal, Where the horn, of repeated echo, Fieras exposes you, to the earth tinted, Death, asking for terms of distortion The shimmering coral gives to the Tormes! : He brings the frexno closer to a frexno, whose steel, Sweat of blood, the time will be short Purple snow; And as soon as the worried hunter gives in, To the hard oak, to the raised pine Living emulators of the clubs The fearsome signs Of the bear he still kissed, pierced, The handle of your shining spear, Or the sacred reserve of the oak The Augustus of the dais or the fountain The high border, the majestic From the place to your Divinity due, O Duke enlightened! Temper your burning fatigue in its waves, And your limbs are left to rest On the grass, grass, not naked, Give yourself time to find the right foot That your wandering steps have voted To the royal chain of your shield. Honor to the gentle and generous knot, Freedom, the pursued Fortune; That, to your grace Euterpe grateful, His song will give a sweet instrument, When fame does not horn

All the intrigues of my life are something of yours And this is really nothing extraordinary. You know him as objectively as I do.. However, there's something I'd like to clarify for you, when I say all the intrigues, I don't make only reference to this now, to wait for you and hallelujah to find you, and to lose you, and to find you, and I hope nothing more.. I don't mean to say that your dis suddenly, I'll cry. And me, with a discreet ball in my throat, I cry. And that a beautiful being invisible protects us and it's possible for that that the sun rises all at once. I don’t even mean that day after day, increase the stock of our small and decisive complicities, or that I can or believe I can turn my setbacks into victories, or offer me the tender gift of your last despair. Not. The choice is much more serious. When I say all the intrigues I mean that in addition to this sweet cataclysm, you rewrite also my childhood, cet âge où on dit des choses adultes et solennelles et les adultes solennels les célèbrent, et vous, par contre, savez que ça ne marche pas. I mean, you reconstruct my adolescence, this time where I was an old man full of worries, and you know how to extract from this vague terrain, my germ of joy and the roses in looking at him.. Je veux dire tu secoues ma jeunesse, cette cruche que personne n'a jamais prise dans ses mains, cette ombre que personne n'approchait de son ombre, et toi, par contre, tu sais comment le secouer jusqu'à ce que les feuilles sèches commencent à tomber, et le tissu de ma vérité reste sans exploits. I mean, you know how to shake my youth, this crutch that nobody has ever taken in his hands, this shadow that nobody has ever come near his shadow, and you, par contre, you know how to shake it until the dry leaves begin to fall, and the web of my truth remains without exploits.. I mean, you accept my maturity this mixture of stupeur and experience, this strange confinement of anguish and snow, this candle that illuminates death, this precipice of poor life.. Comme vous le voyez, c'est plus grave, Beaucoup plus sérieux, Parce qu'avec ces mots et d'autres, Je veux dire que tu n'es pas si seul, la chère fille que tu es, mais aussi les femmes splendides ou prudentes what I wanted or what I want. I think I discovered, thanks to you, that love is a beautiful and generous vessel, that lights up and darkens. Like life comes, a bay where the ships come and go, They arrive with birds and omens, And they depart with sirens and storm clouds. A beautiful and generous bay, where ships arrive and depart.. But you, please, don't go.

With such vehemence the wind comes from the sea, its sounds the elementals infect the silence of the night. It's only in your bed that you listen to it insisting on the crystals touch, cry and call like lost with no one. But it's not him that's awake you have, but another force that your body is a prison today, It was free wind, and remember. Give me, invisible flame, cold sword, your persistent anger, to end it all, oh dry world, oh bleeding world, to end it all. Burns, dark, simmering, dull and burning, ashes and living stone, desert without shores. Burns in the vast sky, slab and cloud, under the blind light that falls among the dry rocks. It burns in the loneliness that destroys us, land of burning stone, of frozen and thirsty roots. Burning, hidden rage, ashes that drive you crazy, burning invisible, burning like the helpless sea brings clouds, waves like resentment and stone foams. Between my delirious bones, it burns; burns in the hollow air, invisible and pure furnace; burns as time burns, how time passes between death, with its own steps and its breath; It burns as the loneliness that devours you, burns in you, incubating, loneliness without image, thirst without lips. To end it all, oh dry world, to end it all

The bird in love sings in the jungle arbor to his love, who through the green ground did not see the hunter who carefully listens to him, the crossbow armed. Pull, mademoiselle. Fly and troubled voices in the beak turned into ice, returns, and from branch to branch shortens the flight not to get away from the beloved garment. So love sings in the nest; but then jealousy that mistrusts They shoot arrows for fear of oblivion, runs, fears, suspects, inquires, jealousy, and until it sees the hunter gone, From thought to thought, it flies. I grow a white rose in June as in January For the honest friend who gives me his free hand. And for the cruel one who tears away the heart with which I live, I grow thistle or nettle; I grow the white rose

With ten cannons per band, The wind in their sails, does not cut the sea, but steals a brigantin sailboat; pirate ship they call, for its bravery, the Fear, in all the seas known from one border to the other. The moon sparkles in the sea, the wind moans on the sail and rises in a gentle motion of silver and blue waves; and the pirate captain leaves, singing joyfully in the stern, Asia on one side, Europe on the other, and there, before Istanbul; Sail on my sailboat, without fear, that not even an enemy ship, nor storm, nor good fortune, your course to twist reached, nor to keep your worth. Twenty barrages we made in spite of, of the English, and they surrendered their banners a hundred nations At my feet. It's my boat, my treasure, that freedom is my god, my law, the strength and the wind, my only homeland is the sea

I'm a naked soul in these verses, naked soul, distressed and alone He leaves his petals scattered. Soul that can be a poppy, It could be a lily, a violet, A cliff, a jungle and a wave. Soul that wanders ever like the wind And roars when it's above the seas, And sleeps softly in a crack. Soul that worships on its altars, Gods that do not come down to blind it; Soul that does not know the barriers. An easy soul to dominate With a single heart that breaks To water her hot blood. Soul that when it's spring It says to the winter that delays: come back, lay your snow on the meadow. Soul that dissolves when it snows In the sadness, crying for the roses with which spring surrounds us. Soul that sometimes releases butterflies In the open field, without distance adjustment, And he says to them: drink about things. Soul that must die of a perfume Of a sigh, of a verse where one prays, Without losing, if possible, its elegance. Soul that knows nothing and denies everything And by denying the good, the good favors Because it is denied as others come. Soul that usually exists as a delight Palpating souls, despising the trace, And feeling a caress in his hand. Soul that is always dissatisfied with her, Like the winds, it wanders, runs and turns; Soul that bleeds and deliriums without ceasing To be the moving vessel of the star Yo sueño que estoy aquí, estas prisiones cargado; y soñé que en otro estado más lisonjero me vi. ¿What is life? A frenzy. ¿What is life? An illusion, a shadow, a fiction, and the greatest good is small; that all life is dream, and dreams, dreams are

I'm a naked soul in these verses, naked soul, distressed and alone He leaves his petals scattered. Soul that can be a poppy, It could be a lily, a violet, A cliff, a jungle and a wave. Soul that wanders ever like the wind And roars when it's above the seas, And sleeps softly in a crack. Soul that worships on its altars, Gods that do not come down to blind it; Soul that does not know the barriers. An easy soul to dominate With a single heart that breaks To water her hot blood. Soul that when it's spring It says to the winter that delays: come back, lay your snow on the meadow. Soul that dissolves when it snows In the sadness, crying for the roses with which spring surrounds us. Soul that sometimes releases butterflies In the open field, without distance adjustment, And he says to them: drink about things. Soul that must die of a perfume Of a sigh, of a verse where one prays, Without losing, if possible, its elegance. Soul that knows nothing and denies everything And by denying the good, the good favors Because it is denied as others come. Soul that usually exists as a delight Palpating souls, despising the trace, And feeling a caress in his hand. Soul that is always dissatisfied with herself, Like the winds, it wanders, runs and turns; Soul that bleeds and deliriums without ceasing To be the moving vessel of the star.