If You Forget Me - Pablo Neruda

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

Where the Sidewalk Ends - Shel Silverstein

There is a place where the sidewalk ends

And before the street begins,

And there the grass grows soft and white,

And there the sun burns crimson bright,

And there the moon-bird rests from his flight

To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black

And the dark street winds and bends.

Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow

We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,

And watch where the chalk-white arrows go

To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,

And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,

For the children, they mark, and the children, they know

The place where the sidewalk ends.

The Guest House - Rumi

This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out

for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice.

meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.

Be grateful for whatever comes.

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.

Rug Hydrangea - Alexander Vvedensky

I regret that I’m not a beast,

running along a blue path,

telling myself to believe,

and my other self to wait a little,

I’ll go out with myself to the forest

to examine the insignificant leaves.      

I regret that I’m not a star,

running along the vaults of the sky,

in search of the perfect nest

it finds itself and earth’s empty water,

no one has ever heard of a star giving out a squeak,

its purpose is to encourage the fish with its silence.

And then there’s this grudge that I bear,

that I’m not a rug, nor a hydrangea.

I regret I’m not a roof,

falling apart little by little,

which the rain soaks and softens,

whose death is not sudden.

I don’t like the fact that I’m mortal,

I regret that I am not perfect.

Much much better, believe me,

is a particle of day a unit of night.

I regret that I’m not an eagle,

flying over peak after peak,

to whom comes to mind

a man observing the acres.

I regret I am not an eagle,

flying over lengthy peaks,

to whom comes to mind

a man observing the acres.

You and I, wind, will sit down together

on this pebble of death.

It’s a pity I’m not a grail

I don’t like that I am not pity.

"They left like you knew they would." - Henry Rollins

They left you like you knew they would. They went away and you

fell like a stone. All the way to the bottom of your room. I see you,

yes I see you. Sitting in your chair, hating every minute of it. Falling

like a stone without even moving. It hurt you to know that you were

right about all the shit you wanted to be wrong about. They always

leave you. You put yourself in the right place to get left.

The Man He Killed - Thomas Hardy

Had he and I but met

By some old ancient inn,

We should have set us down to wet

Right many a nipperkin!

But ranged as infantry,

And staring face to face,

I shot at him as he at me,

And killed him in his place.

I shot him dead because--

Because he was my foe,

Just so: my foe of course he was;

That's clear enough; although

He thought he'd 'list, perhaps,

Off-hand like--just as I--

Was out of work--had sold his traps--

No other reason why.

Yes; quaint and curious war is!

You shoot a fellow down

You'd treat, if met where any bar is,

Or help to half a crown.