I will not cry tonight,
I do not want to gather in the rain,
Then shrivel beneath the sun...
I am tired of these things,
And in the passing chill;
I have become ill.
Wakeful hours, wakeful hours,
I hear the horse howl in the distance,
Do not come with shining things,
For, I adore you bare without jewels...
You come with a fog,
A dream without mercy,
And, your presence performs
With the richest colors...
Bring me the seasoned grape of your being,
And your surplus heart of wine,
And I will know you with my pale lips...
I will know you with my pale lips.
'Oh my love, ' you seem a divinity,
With you in my world everything is abstract,
With your cold, smooth silver lining;
I do not want to compromise
With anything else other than
Your palette of surprise;
I endeavor in these things...
Wine and art.
Drunken, and 'oh so bittersweet'
I understand I am ill,
Overly adored, and, sickened to the rot;
Did you not choose this fruit for yourself,
And, your surplus heart of wine?
Do not cry tonight,
For in these wakeful hours, wakeful hours,
I will know you with my pale lips...
I will know you with my pale lips.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Bring me the seasoned grape of your being, And your surplus heart of wine - I'm sitting here pulling my hair at reading these words..(wish I WROTE THEM!) .they are just sweet and romantic...i give it a 10 10 10 10 10, all the way..-.are you SURE you havn't been reading Neruda, by the way? *wink wink* - seriously, your words are like a reincarnation of his, and yet completely your own - very fresh.