Walking home

The walk back home was long. It was the coldest day of this winter and like every first in his life, it had caught him unprepared. The ticket for the bus was 1.50. That was 1.50 too much. Besides, it was always better to walk when one was unprepared.

No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fueg:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.

The ipod headphones would keep the cold out of his ears and only his ears. He liked walking back after work. It was a good way to get lost. He put his hands in his pocket as he left the building.

Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva
dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo
el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.

The road was lined with orange leaves. The rain had made them wet. They made a squelching sound as his feet mashed them to the road. Autumn smelled good in the evening. Like frozen cigarette smoke and leather boots lined with mud.

The road went past the river and waited in quiet darkness. Waited for the river to flow by and end. Of course it did not end. So the road never stopped waiting. The darkness came and went. He did not know whether he was coming or going. It did not matter. Waiting had no direction and no end.

Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,

The sound of flowing water stood resolute amidst the silent evening serenading Tinker Bell. Happy thoughts! Carpe Diem! No, Peter was not coming to whisk him off to Neverland. There was no escape.

As he walked, the cold seeped into his marrow and embalmed it with silence. A silence not human but primal. Not sublime but subliminal. As evening melted into night, the moon song called him into the wild.

The runes of his life spelt out this journey. The ruins of his fate scorched this road. The endless road that he walked in solitude. The walk back home.

sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.

The lines in Spanish are from a poem by Pablo Neruda. The translation follows.

Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off:
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers,
and thanks to your love, lives dark in my body
the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride:
so I love you because I know no other way,

than this where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.