Nothing will change.
There will still be sunshine on wedding days -
oil-slicked rainbow puddles, swallows
in the cool evening air. There will still be
the soft curling of chimney-stack smoke against sky,
the pale face on a bus that you know,
but can´t place.
Birdsong. There will still be the sound
of a lamenting piano, late, spilling from a bar
as you go by. Still the weekly whistles
of dustbin men - the dappled orange glow
of street-lit rain. There will still be ice,
static, in impossible blades on the railings -
the distant sound of a train.
There will still be the walk to work
in a misty rush-hour; one foot will still
follow the other a gentle waltz
to the beat of the heart.
You will still eat, drink more than you should,
make love, and wrap yourself in cryptic dreams.
The frosty stars will still wheel overhead -
you will still ingore them. The moon
will still haul the sea into its nets; the air will
still grow cool with the promise of night-
the world will still turn.
And yet, late-on, as you shroud yourself
in sticky, crumpled cloth, a fly-trap -
you will still grope feverishly at darkness,
and whispering "where are you?"
expect an answer.
(Despite. Claire Askew)
Cuando no sabes expresar tus sentimientos (por muy de letras que seas)piensa que siempre habrá alguien que lo sepa hacer y que haya pasado por ello.
Cuando se te va un ser querido y cercano(que hay mas cercano que un padre)de la noche a la mañana. Esa impotencia de no poder despedirte de ellos, de no saber cuántos años van a pasar hasta que lo vuelvas a ver. Sentir que no has pasado todo el tiempo que quisieses con esa persona, que no le has contado todo lo que hubieses querido, que no le demostraste suficientemente tu amor, y que derrepente un día llegues de ingés con la alegría de siempre y te espere eso.