The lunar tides
have pulled us
to this morning
the unblinking sun stares
without the eyelids of clouds
The trees shining gold green
the broken calls of birds
in their sleeping branches
coffee cups full of dark pools
beneath our murmuring voices
In a house of clocks
the calendar gathers
dust and falters into ash
beyond our lonely gazes
where love builds it’s wings
In my body you search the mountain
for the sun buried in its forest.
In your body I search for the boat
adrift in the middle of the night.
Octavio Paz, “Counterparts” (via literarymiscellany)
I am where I was:
I walk behind the murmur,
footsteps within me, heard with my eyes,
the murmur is in the mind, I am my footsteps,
I hear the voices that I think,
the voices that think me as as I think them.
I am the shadow my words cast.
Octavio Paz, closing lines to “A draft of shadows”, translated by Eliot Weinberger (via hiddenshores)
Words are bridges.
And they are traps, jails, wells.
Octavio Paz, from “Letter of Testimony”, in A Tree Within, translated by Eliot Weinberger (via hiddenshores)
There were three boatmen at the edge of the shore
silent and motionless - beckoning
from their shrouded shapes
The unstrung spill of heavenly bodies spiraled
above our heads for a sleepy moment
until a great darkness swallowed us up whole
A voice covered in dirt and ashes spoke:
rasping out in Spanish syllables with the
dry rattle of dead leaves
¿Sin duda esta es lugar? (Surely this is the place?)
Su amor ha muerto, pero persiste… (your love is dead but persists..) sunken down in the abyss of the heart
loneliness calling from the depths
the ink black chains of the cross reaching up
to pull me down to the forever grave of your embrace