Te digo adiós, y acaso te quiero todavía.
Quizás no he de olvidarte, pero te digo adiós. 1
No sé si me quisiste... No sé si te quería...
O tal vez nos quisimos demasiado los dos.

Este cariño triste, y apasionado, y loco,
me lo sembré en el alma para quererte a ti.
No sé si te amé mucho... no sé si te amé poco;
pero sí sé que nunca volveré a amar así.

Me queda tu sonrisa dormida en mi recuerdo, 2
y el corazón me dice que no te olvidaré;
pero, al quedarme solo, sabiendo que te pierdo,
tal vez empiezo a amarte como jamás te amé. 3

Te digo adiós, y acaso, con esta despedida,
mi más hermoso sueño muere dentro de mí...
Pero te digo adiós, para toda la vida,
aunque toda la vida siga pensando en ti.

The moment
is a singular heart-beat
of time-- the essence
of your becoming
like none other
a test of your being

that interface
known to none
the dialogue
has just begun

the second
that went before
has shut its door

the nowness
the freshness
the openness
the intimateness

the memorable
perhaps the sublime
the realisation
to be recalled in time

all that life is
is self-centred moments
with the unknown
even the mysterious
the experiencing
of the person alone

how fragile
how unpredictable
the moment
that records
words and thoughts
unspoken

My poetry longs for the disorder,
For the way mania smells like stardust
And tastes like bubblegum clouds.
It craves the buzzing energy like angry bees
Or champagne bubbles in my bloodstream.
Poetry finds beauty in the depression,
In the way sunrises fade to gray
Or food turns to ash in my mouth.
Poetry does not care that 1 in 5
People with bipolar will take their own life.
It is only searching for more syllables to intertwine.
I must be concerned with the consequences,
Diligent in my course of action.
It is the first time in my life my poetry and I do not agree.
Stability may not be poetic,
It is hard won and jagged edges,
But I would not trade it for syllabic symphonies.
I hope stability will be mine to keep.

To die should hold no fear
    but is a life fulfilled
    the day's sunshine will wane
    unto night's silent hours it must yield

  yet it will be good to learn
  how gladly to die
  in the calmest acceptance
without heaving even a tiny sigh

  too much of being life-enamoured
  is in an unbreakable net being caught
impermanence is the eternal law
all things will end in naught

beatitude it is in farewelling
my heart has no sense of loss
whatever that which is beyond I question not
unto that unknown I must willingly cross.

The truth about the world is hidden.
Records about it (because they were)
are locked in the iron mountain by a man.

Iron protects well against persistence.

For us remained only Pythagoras,
Plato,
Daedalus.

But we talk about Icarus most often
because defiantness and falling down
are exemplary.

You can hear it (only to hear)
in a swallow's flight when cuts an air,
when puts reality like ears of grain.

The truth is in the rustle of insects,
seasons of the year,
passing,

you can see it
in circles on the water
and honeycombs,

in trees it goes on without moving
just like in rocks,

but in the spoon of tar is the most of it.

The truth is also in the emptiness of the beach:
the sound of waves often talks about it
whenever touch of dunes on the back
tickles with it.

Then you can smile
and not even know
that the body felt the story.

For us it is just a movement of the grass
on the wind.

The short story
about the truth

it was.