“Maybe it was the voice of the rain crying, a cracked bell, or a torn heart.” -Pablo Neruda

Filia_130531_5-63-2Since the week has been grey and foggy it is nice to think of a place where leaves are growing as luxuriantly as the flowers are. In the morning, my Mum asked me for an image I took in Nepal the day my Pap passed away. My favorite one is the butterfly lingering on the textured leaves. I am surprised at how many images I didn’t mark as favorites in the beginning, that are now turning out to be the most special to me. In the afternoon, my friend, Tara, asked me for a poem. My first instinct from a friend in need of literary nurturing is to send Pablo Neruda their way, and to do it as quickly as I can! The subjects may seem unsuitable for the current season, but who doesn’t love a fabulous poem and images from an extraordinary place?

Nepal 5.13-1006-2

Lost in the forest
by Pablo Neruda

Lost in the forest, I broke off a dark twig
and lifted its whisper to my thirsty lips:
maybe it was the voice of the rain crying,
a cracked bell, or a torn heart.

Something from far off it seemed
deep and secret to me, hidden by the earth,
a shout muffled by huge autumns,
by the moist half-open darkness of the leaves.

Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig
sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance
climbed up through my conscious mind

as if suddenly the roots I had left behind
cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood—
and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent.


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