While I don't see you, I don't shed a tear
I never lose my senses when you're near,
But, with our meetings few and far between
There's something missing, waiting to be seen.
Is there a name for what I'm thinking of?
Are we just friends? Or should I call this love?
© Uncertainty, by Adam Mickiewicz
Mother, you don’t understand; I made Hades run to me
He saw my bones beneath and offered me half his kingdom.
Do you really think I ate the fruit unwillingly?
Persephone is having sex in hell.
Unlike the rest of us, she doesn’t know
what winter is, оnly that
she is what causes it.
‘i carry your heart’ by E.E.Cummings
i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by оnly me is your doing, my darling)
i fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
The very first time I remember you, you are blonde and don’t love me back.
The next time you are brunette, and you do.
After a while I give up trying to guess if the colour of your hair means anything.
because even if you don’t exist, I am always in love with you.
I remember most fondly those lifetimes where we get to grow up together,
when you share your secrets and sorrows and hiding places with me.
I love how you play along with my bad ideas,
before you grow up and realize they are bad ideas.
(And in our times together I have many bad ideas.)
When we meet as adults you’re always much more discerning. I don’t blame you.
Yet, always, you forgive me.
As if you understand what’s going оn, and you’re making up for
all the lifetimes in which оne of us doesn’t exist,
and the оnes where we just, barely, never meet.
I hate those. I prefer the оnes in which you kill me.
But when all’s said and done, I’d surrender to you in other ways.
Even though each time, I know I’ll see you again, I always wonder
is this the last time?
Is that really you?
And what if you’re perfectly happy
without me?
Ah, but I don’t blame you; I’ll never burn as brilliantly as you. It’s оnly fair
that I should be the оne
to chase you across ten, twenty-five, a hundred lifetimes
until I find the оne where you’ll return to me.
Лучшее
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