Poetry

Good things wither when they grace my hands

It all crumbles into fine soft sands;
As the breeze thickens and sweeps me past
Good things wither when they grace my hands.

I try to thread careful through time's vast lands,
Yet as much as I count each blessing I'm cast,
It all crumbles into fine soft sands.

The voices of guides and beloved friends
Ring loudly and clearly before fading fast;
Good things wither when they grace my hands.

Though I wish I could weave each of these strands
Into a colourful fabric of life I've passed,
It all crumbles into fine soft sands.

And when I tire of the tides’ demands
I look behind to an horizon hazed, not glassed;
Good things wither when they grace my hands.

Far enough, when the storm lands,
the dust will find me to settle at last.
It all crumbles into fine soft sands;
Good things wither when they grace my hands.

27/06

No estoy llorando;
hago un hermoso lago
de los pensamientos
que corren de mis ojos.
Y lo llenaré
de patos y lirios y peces,
y si llego a algún día
encontrarte de nuevo,
te besaré por un largo tiempo
y te llevaré a nadar
a mi lago de lágrimas.
Y tu canción favorita
brillará en tu cabello
mientras te digo
cuánto valió la pena
haberte extrañado.

And I saw the spark,
the one whose chase I'd given up,
and I stole it off the night's hands
and I swallowed it whole.

And I thought of how
it would've fallen and grown
and I opened up my body
and I combed through the ashes
and saw the dark but not the flicker.

About the shooting just now

Guns ring afar
like corn being popped;
“It's not fireworks,”
states my mother.

Two parties,
or three or more;
their noise settles
within a few minutes.

A metal door shuts
as the shop-runner closes
and climbs the stairs
up to her home.

The TV is back on,
“We’ll watch the news tomorrow;”
thirty minutes pass
and shots click again
above the programme's voices.