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Left holding contradictions
Entrada de blog en MundoPoesía — poesía, reflexiones y prosa libre de nuestra comunidad literaria.
Left holding contradictions
LEFT HOLDING CONTRADITIONS
Remember when we laughed at time?
eternal tunnels we build as ode to the sun.
Marching along the road the moonlight
ended the day with silvery ribbons scattered
down the sloppy hills where we sat many afternoons.
In the beginning we loved the blue-green stream
every so often we would feel the cold water
soothe our fingertips, it was our story
and you were mine in the summer months.
Let me begin again before the fear subsides;
before the memories of your innocent smile
begin to fade. I often remember your laughter,
but you don’t laugh anymore. I often remember your eyes
but you are no longer here; you are somewhere
beneath the sky and over the mountains and hills.
Wrapped in a shawl of fear and uncertainty
just buying time and I am left holding contradictions
I have custody of that winter rain that stole your heart.
___________________
Guadalupe Cisneros Villa
Monterrey NL/ Dallas Tx
3/8/2021
Remember when we laughed at time?
eternal tunnels we build as ode to the sun.
Marching along the road the moonlight
ended the day with silvery ribbons scattered
down the sloppy hills where we sat many afternoons.
In the beginning we loved the blue-green stream
every so often we would feel the cold water
soothe our fingertips, it was our story
and you were mine in the summer months.
Let me begin again before the fear subsides;
before the memories of your innocent smile
begin to fade. I often remember your laughter,
but you don’t laugh anymore. I often remember your eyes
but you are no longer here; you are somewhere
beneath the sky and over the mountains and hills.
Wrapped in a shawl of fear and uncertainty
just buying time and I am left holding contradictions
I have custody of that winter rain that stole your heart.
___________________
Guadalupe Cisneros Villa
Monterrey NL/ Dallas Tx
3/8/2021
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Las contradicciones son la esencia de la vida: estar vivo y muerto a la vez y no saber por qué. Pero expresarlas bellamente es el privilegio de los poetas.
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