(Source: a-bstracto)

  • 1 month ago
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You know, I think more and more often
that I should go back.
Maybe I’ll meet you. And happiness?
Happiness is being sad together.

So I look through the moonlit window
and listen.
Nothing. A breeze stirs somewhere.
Alone among the leaves - the moon.

Like a golden wheel it rolls
above the windblown leaves.
Such moons, only paler,
shone over the Vistula.

Even the Big Dipper on its course
stops in a tree at midnight,
just like at home. But why here?
Truly, I don’t know.

What’s here? Longing and sleepless nights,
unknown streets and somebody’s verse.
I live here as a nobody:
a Displaced Person.

I think of you. I know I must leave.
Perhaps we can return to our past,
but I know neither what youth will be like
nor where you are.

But I’m yours or no one’s
forever. Listen,
listen, read this poem
if somewhere you are alive.

— "You know, I think more and more often", Tadeusz Borowski

  • 1 month ago
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  • 1 month ago
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I hadn’t told them about you, but they saw you bathing in my eyes. I hadn’t told them about you, but they saw you in my written words. The perfume of love cannot be concealed.

— Nizar Qabbani

  • 1 month ago
  • 2806
  • 2 months ago
  • 2321
What happened, happened once. So now it’s best
in memory — an orange he sliced: the skin
unbroken, then the knife, the chilled wedge
lifted to my mouth, his mouth, the thin
membrane between us, the exquisite orange,
tongue, orange, my nakedness, and his,
the way he pushed me up against the fridge —
Now I get to feel his hands again, the kiss
that didn’t last, but sent some neural twin
flashing wildly through the cortex. Love’s
merciless, the way it travels on
and keeps emitting light. Beside the stove
we ate an orange. And there were purple flowers
on the table. And we still had hours.

— Kim Addonizio, Stolen Moments

(Source: fables-of-the-reconstruction)

  • 2 months ago
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  • 2 months ago
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