I wouldn’t say i don’t know why, but i surely don’t know when i fell in love with her, was it love or just the concern and affection i had for her, bits by bits. Ins’t that stupid? But every second made me believe that I knew her. Like she was my closest friend. The kind of person you can tell anything to, no matter how bad, and they’ll still love you, because they know you. And all i ever wanted was for this unnamed, unsaid thing to work. I wanted her to see me. And when the time came she stopped noticing. Like i never existed. We planned every bit of her life but i was not in her plan. Everyday our paths collide. In her eyes I see her telling me something; I don’t know. Or probably she doesn’t even know i am there. But I’ll always love her. All my life.
A man doesn’t have time in his life
to have time for everything.
He doesn’t have seasons enough to have
a season for every purpose. Ecclesiastes
Was wrong about that.
A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,
to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
to make love in war and war in love.
And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,
to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest
takes years and years to do.
A man doesn’t have time.
When he loses he seeks, when he finds
he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves
he begins to forget.
And his soul is seasoned, his soul
is very professional.
Only his body remains forever
an amateur. It tries and it misses,
gets muddled, doesn’t learn a thing,
drunk and blind in its pleasures
and its pains.
He will die as figs die in autumn,
Shriveled and full of himself and sweet,
the leaves growing dry on the ground,
the bare branches pointing to the place
where there’s time for everything.