I die of love, I die, the shadow of my sadness, neither beat me nor beat her, my sorrow, I have my flesh in my heart. Penalty that rises to my lips,Desperate like a bitter and dry fruit, My man’s sorrow! Grief, which feels with in the body. Oh! … Ramón without your life … you will feel as I am of dry anguish inside, you will feel the icy moon that drains snow on my chest,Desperate if you could hear, how my torment fell and feel how sad it is at night my thoughts; I have two blind hands, that his light was your body, and inside my heart, I am alone like the wind, my forehead is empty, and my mouth is deserted the kiss of love, the one that leaves its shadow inside. But grief is grief, and this pain that I have is not grief alone, it is tearing, “Lonely in his torment”
She the Death.
The death in peace and strength that conquers all struggle, that reaps lives, that leaves wounds that changes the joys, for bitter sorrows. She, who still awaits hurts, although we know her surprises us, watches over us, steals us from the loved one, unites us in misery, predisposes us, the cessations of life;Desperate Death, reason that hurts at any time, friend and foe of every living being, wherever she enters, anywhere and time she presents herself; Sometimes he heals an evil with grave silence; She, death, who knows no languages, no borders, that after arriving … levels her, inhospitable, observes you, maybe breaks you a little, warns you, prevents you, total “seizes you”, knows that we are part of its existence and glory, of its reason for being; Our lives, is your goal. For this reason, we are watched and waited everywhere, classifying skies, species and experiences.
When hiding the sun behind the mountains, I went yesterday afternoon to the sad place where the crazy vanities finally end; Looking at the towering cypresses, the weeping willows, the white roses and the mausoleum of chiselled jasper; I felt in the deepest part of my soul, inexplicable pain;Desperate Seeing that even in the house of the dead, there are contrasts; Another thing I watched shortly after with great strangeness; Very wet were some other dry graves they found themselves; “Tell me,” ask the gravedigger, how can you explain that while some graves are dry, others are wet? and the old guardian of the dead replied in a low voice;
Those who rest in the dry graves Lady … “They have no one” …
When the sad loneliness converses with an old memory, already lost, the soul grieves with such force that the lost is reborn again; Sadly, old scenes, happy, but gone, are present in such a way, a dark present of life itself, like an eclipse of the sun in spring; The grief is the shadow that shakes reality, that when conversing overwhelms, together they are as in the margin the moss splashed between the foam grows; It is burning fire that produces cold, it is an internal bond that presses the chest, it is to long for dreaming towards the void, wanting to redo what is done; And the happier the experience was, the conversation becomes more bleak; the dearest memory is sadder and what was most mine is strangest.
Roses and life
The roses on their stems carry thorns, human beings carry them in their hearts … Who has not pricked themselves in their life? I wonder, which of the two punctures is worse? The one with the rose, or the one with the heart? The one with the rose soon passes her pain, but alas! the prick of the heart is such a great pain, so deep, that I don’t want that one …
I regret a sore heart.
“If I knew how to write” How many things would I write, if I could write, I only write how little life taught me; There are so many anxieties, that I have to write, and be able to tell, the joys, the sorrows, that I have spent in this life; I just want to remember the good things, those give me life! How curious life is, how little I am writing is helping me a “Being” that is no longer there, in this life; His knowledge, seems to give me strength, gives me life … How much we miss you. ” My life”…