The Wake of The Princess
dimanche, le 27 septembre 2009
A lazy, lazy Sunday. Catching up with some friends over the phone, watching a spot of cricket, and taking The Princess for her walk.
And as always on a Sunday, some contemplation. I read a poem by Pablo Neruda the other day that reminded me so much of L’homme. I read it again today. It fills me with melancholy.
We have lost even this twilight.
No one saw us this evening hand in hand
while the blue night dropped on the world.
I have seen from my window
the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.
Sometimes a piece of sun
burned like a coin in my hand.
I remembered you with my soul clenched
in that sadness of mine that you know.
Where were you then?
Who else was there?
Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly
when I am sad and feel you are far away?
The book fell that always closed at twilight
and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet.
Always, always you recede through the evenings
toward the twilight erasing statues.
I walk around my house listlessly for a while. I snuggle next to The Princess on our couch to watch the end of the cricket match. My team looses and this does nothing to improve my melancholy mood. I make some lists for a busy work week to come. I decided to turn in early.
(With the sun setting behind her, The Princess retrieves her ball from the water with proud encouragement from me on the side. I sometimes think some of our fellow walkers must think that I am stark raving mad, not that they would be very wrong, but I do like to encourage The Princess enthusiastically when she retrieves her ball. In L’homme’s words and tone of voice she is always promised a biscuit.)
Posted by Rispa Frances at 23:30