Poetry corner Where dreams DO come true - Finland Helsingissä edition unissani ME: No signal ME: Гордост, страх и неразбиране! ME: The lunatic's conversation with John Steinbeck ME: Stand up comedy Attempt (video)
In these streets that deepen the west, one will (not sure which) I've been down for the last time, indifferent and guess, under Who prefix omnipotent standards and a secret and rigid as the shadows, dreams and forms unwoven and weave this life. If for everything there and a measure and last time and never forget who and who will tell us in this house without knowing we have fired? After the dawning window ceases and the stacked books a truncated night shadows on the dim table, we must never read it. There in the South more than one worn gate with their vases of masonry and tunas that my way is barred like a lithograph. Any door closed forever and there is a mirror that awaits in vain; the crossroads seem open and monitors, cuadrifronte, Janus. There is among all your memories one was lost irretrievably; They will not see you down to that fountain neither sun nor moon white yellow. It never recapture what the Persian swissaid Said in his language of birds and roses, when the sunset, before the scattered light, you mean unforgettable things. And the incessant Rhone and the lake, all this yesterday on which I lean today? As will be lost as Carthage salted with fire and erased the Latin. At dawn I heard rumor of a busy crowds away; are those who have loved me and forgotten; space and time and Borges now are leaving me.
And, in the jumbled stack of books That shed
Said In His tongue of roses, wine and birds,
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