viernes, 16 de mayo de 2008

The letters


(Imagen: Vista de Lisboa desde el "Castillo de San Jorge"/ Vue de la ville de Lisbonne, sur la place du "Castelo de São Jorge")
Leonard Cohen
(encore une fois)



You never liked to get
the letters that I sent.



But now you've got the gist
of what my letters meant.


You're reading them again,
the ones you didn't burn.


You press them to your lips,
my pages of concern.


I said there'd been a flood.
I said there's nothing left.
I hoped that you would come.
I gave you my address.


Your story was so long,
the plot was so intense,
it took you years to cross
the lines of self-defense.


The wounded forms appear:
the loss, the full extent;
and simple kindness here,
the solitude of strength.


You walk into my room.
You stand there at my desk,
begin your letter to
the one who's coming next.

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