Παρασκευή, 13 Φεβρουαρίου 2015

"Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands"




"Somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near...

Your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose...

Or if your wish be to close me, i and my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines...

The snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility: Whose texture, compels me with the color of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing...

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)


Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands"

E. E. Cummings

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