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Before I loved you, Love, nothing was my own:
I wavered through the streets, among objects:
nothing mattered or had a name:
the world was made of air, which waited.
I knew rooms full of ashes,
tunnels where the moon lived,
rough warehouses that growled get lost,
questions that insisted in the sand.
Everything was empty, dead, mute,
fallen, abandoned, and decayed:
inconceivably alien, it all
belonged to someone else — to no one:
till your beauty and your poverty
filled the autumn plentiful with gifts.
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At times you sink, you fall
into your hole of silence,
into your abyss of proud anger,
and you can scarcely
return, still bearing remnants
of what you found
in the depths of your existence.
My love, what do you find
in you closed well?
Seaweed, swamps, rocks?
What do you see with blind eyes,
bitter and wounded?
Darling, you will not find
in the well into which you fall
what I keep for you on the heights:
a bouquet of dewy jasmines,
a kiss deeper that your abyss.
Do not fear me, do not fall
into your rancor again.
Shake off my word that
came to wound you
and let it fly through the open window.
It will return to wound
without you guiding it
since it was laden with a harsh instant
and that instant will be disarmed in my breast.
Smile at me radiant
if my mouth wounds you
I am not a gentle shepherd
like the ones in fairy tales,
but a good woodsman who shares with you
earth, wind, and mountain thorns.
Love me, you, smile at me,
help me to be good.
Do not wound yourself in me,for it will be useless,
do not wound me because you wound yourself.
“I miss you like a child misses his blanket”