The most beautiful of oceans
it that which we never sailed.
The most beautiful of our sons
hasn't yet grown.
The most beautiful of our days
we still have to live.
And that
which I would like to you of most beautiful
I haven't yet told you.
Be patient towards all that
is unresolved in your heart...
try to adore questions, so similar to
locked rooms and books written
in a foreign language.
Don't seek now those answers that can't be given to you
for you wouldn't be able to live with them.
Living is everything. Live the questions now.
Maybe you shall receive it, without you noticing it,
to live the distant
day in which you'll have the answer.
Remember Barbara
It rained endlessly on Brest on that day
And you walked smiling
Radiant enchanted dripping-wet
In the rain
Remember Barbara
It was raining endlessly on Brest
And I came across you in the Rue de Siam
You were smiling
And I smiled the same
Remember Barbara
You whom I did not know
You who did not know me
Remember
Remember even though that very day
Forget not
A man, under a porch, was sheltering
And he called your name
Barbara
And you ran towards him in the rain
Dripping-wet enchanted radiant
And you threw yourself into his arms
Remember that, Barbara
And do not resent it if I call you: "tu"
I say "tu" to everyone I love
Even if I have seen them only once
I say" tu" to all who love each other
Even if I do not know them
Remember Barbara
Forget not
The quiet and happy rain
Hereon your happy face
Hereon the happy town
The rain hereon the merry sea
On the arsenal
On the shuttle boat to Ushant
Oh Barbara
What a bloody farce the war
What's become of you now
In the rain of iron
Of fire, of steel of blood
And the one who clasped you in his arms
Lovingly
Is he now dead, missing, or still alive
Oh Barbara
It's raining endlessly on Brest
As it rained before
But now it is not the same, and all set abased
It is a rain of mourning, terrible and desolate
Now it is even no longer the storm
Of iron, of steel of blood
Merely clouds
That go coma like dogs
Dogs that go missing
Along the current over Brest
And will go pouring in the far
In the very far away from Brest
Of which there is nothing left.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Don't wait to finish university,
to fall in love,
to find a job,
to get married,
to have children,
to see them settle down,
to lose those ten pounds,
for friday evening to arrive or sunday morning,
spring,
autumn or winter.
There isn't a better moment than this to be happy.
Happiness is a path, not a destination.
Work as if you didn't need money,
love as if no one ever hurt you and dance, as if no one saw you.
Remember that the skin wrinkles up,
the hair turns white and the days become years.
But the important things don't change: your strength and conviction have no age.
Your spirit is the duster that wipes away any cobweb.
Behind every goal is a new start.
Behind every result is a new challenge. While you're alive, feel alive.
Go on, even when everyone expects you to give up.
Three matches one by one struck in the night
The first to see your face in its entirety
The second to see your eyes
The last to see your mouth
And the darkness all around to remind me of all these
As I hold you in my arms.
I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.
I often repeat silently
that you must live in rememberance only
when few days are left to me.
What is past
is as if never was.
The past is a lace that
clenches at my throat to my mind
and takes energy from facing my present.
The past is only the smoke
of who hasn't lived.
What I have already seen
doesn't mean anything anymore.
The past and the future
aren't reality but only fleeting illusions.
I must be free from time
and live the present since there isn't any other time
than this wonderful moment.
We are always asked
to understand the other person's
viewpoint
no matter how
out-dated
foolish or
obnoxious.
One is asked
to view
their total error
their life-waste
with
kindliness,
especially if they are
aged.
But age is the total of
our doing.
They have aged
badly
because they have
lived
out of focus,
they have refused to
see.
Not their fault?
Whose fault?
Mine?
I am asked to hide
my viewpoint
from them
for fear of their
fear.
Age is no crime
but the shame
of a deliberately
wasted
life
among so many
deliberately
wasted
lives
is.
When you give me your little hand
That conveys so much you never say,
Have I ever asked in any way
If you love me, if you can?
I don't desire love from thee,
Only that I know you're near
And that once in a while dear
You softly and silently give your hand to me.