miércoles, 24 de agosto de 2011


My wounded soul awakens clinging to the shelter of the bay, I don’t want the day to break, the farewell to arrive.

Sadness engulfs my body and she slithers through my bones, exhausted by the fight, I escape and I leave her to shiver.

Two ropes and a board hang from a broken branch while the wind whispers tales through the leaves, tales of cradled children and laughter lost amongst the tall field grass.

Running barefoot, grandmother shouts ¨stay out of the puddles¨. Two curious faces peer over into a tadpole’s world, spreading chaos as they stir up the bottom with their little hands.

Today the puddles are dry and the photograph is missing a little girl and an old man, tears, mud and bitter endings, the fate for us who carry on.

The good times are but a distant past and today even my memories betray me, cutting so deep they break me inside. I don’t want the good to hurt, the tenderness to wound, that the most innocent of feelings leave my chest heavy, leave my mouth dry.

Sailors have a saying that land inflicted wounds are cured by the sea, the salt heals the wounds and the ever breaking waves spray your face so you cannot cry.

Gracias a Jess por esta bonita traducción.

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