Oh half-remembered, fleeting happy time,
When nothing mattered more than love and play,
Imagination was then in its prime,
And life began anew with every day.

A flower was then a joy, a mystery,
And not a petal, root and simple stem,
And life was full of wondrous fantasy,
Untainted by the intellect of man.

That time is gone now, It cannot return,
The fruit's been swallowed, its slow poison kills,
And yet my fallen heart will always yearn,
For that ephemeral time of unknown skills.

Oh false god, knowledge, daily you destroy,
All that was holy in me as a boy!

Que tragedia es una vida malgastada,
persiguiendo lo que el orgullo pide,
a lo largo a veces uno lo percibe,
al ver cerca el final, lejos la entrada.

Nunca pensé ser yo quien destacaba,
Shakespeare en Macbeth cuando el describe,
la vida “sombra caminante” y la mide,
como “un cuento de un idiota . . . nada.”

Cuando se cerraron todos los portales,
que apuntaban a otros horizontes?
no me di cuenta, trepando por montes,
que no eran mas que tinieblas irreales.

Que ser honesto puede encontrar paz,
cuando la misma solo queda atrás?


A Wasted Life [English translation]

What a tragedy is a wasted life,
Chasing that which pride craves,
In time sometimes we come to realize,
When our entrance is far, the exit near.

I never thought it would apply to me,
When Shakespeare's Macbeth describes,
Life as a "walking shadow" and rates it,
A "tale told by an idiot . . . nothing."

When did all open doors close,
That led to other horizons?
I never noticed it, climbing mountains,
That were but insubstantial shadows.

What honest being can ever find peace,
Knowing it lies only in the past?

Poetry is a dangerous siren’s song,
That calls the soul towards a chasm deep,
Dulling the mind and making the heart long,
For that which it may touch yet never keep.

A Sonnet is too much the friend of truth,
And leaves no room for self-deluding lies,
It conjures up the honesty of youth,
And artifice through artifice soon dies.

Essential truths will spill onto the page,
Transpiring through the pores of consciousness,
Leaving exposed the battles that we wage,
To build facades of hope for hopelessness.

I can deny the painful song I hear,
But it’s too late; its message is too clear.

I read the pages of my life so clear,
Its images dismissed as pains of youth,
And yet, though far, I see them all so clear,
Relive the fear, hope, warmth  glimmers of truth.

Vague shadows visit me and leave behind,
Uneasy feelings draped in tenderness,
I see too well, yet wish that I were blind,
And fear above all else my truthfulness.

If only I believed that I could find,  
One path in life to follow faithfully;
How sad that knowledge can be so unkind,
And pain the wages of our honesty.

I'd gladly give my life for peace of mind,
Yet know in life it is not mine to find.

I used to stumble, weakly as a child,
Who cannot see, touch, smell, taste or feel,
A wandering entity whom love defiled,
And made to falsely genuflect and kneel.

So very many nights through tears I've slept,
Drowning in the indifference of this earth,
So very many years my heart I kept,
Eager to light the fires of home and hearth.

But then one soft, cool night not long ago,
Your love you tenderly presented me,
And in my veins new life began to flow,
As we were joined for all eternity.

When we outgrow our cells of flesh and bone,
I pray our love will freely fly back home.

Is there not more to life than suffering?
At times it seems we live only to die.  
Happiness comes most often in our dreams,
Brushing our souls a moment, passing by.

Where are the hopes of youth? When did they fade?
Ephemeral shades of fragile, tender hearts!
When did we break the promises we made?
How brief the light, how dark the night which starts.

I still remember, once upon a time,
Sweet, evanescent images still come,
Bearing both pain and ecstasy sublime,
In ghostly visions of dreams nearly gone.

If there's meaning to life beyond the pain,
It's so hard to discern through all the rain.

A little angel winks from up above,
The littlest fireman in God’s domain,
Bathed in God’s Grace, covered with His love,
Untouched by earthly cares, worries, or pain.

Too soon your race was done, Devon, dear child,
Only five summers’ suns warmed your sweet face,
And yet you brought much joy for one so mild,
To all who knew your smile, felt your embrace.

Tears mark your passing in a time too brief,
We wish God had less pressing need of you,
Your family struggles now to bear their grief,
Lord, grant them peace and strength their whole lives through.

Your spirit flies now high above the sky,
Lifted by love that will not, cannot die.

Behind enemy lines you gave your life,
The risks you knew and embraced willingly,
Red, black and green berets fought by your side,
And brought your body back to family.

Later in a ritual of their own,
They would name a field airport in your name,
And honor you, your brothers, far from home,
Their memory now your eternal flame.

I do not know your rank, your name, your face,
I only know that I am in your debt,
Who for your family can take your place?
Our debt to them we must never forget.

The freedom I enjoy comes thanks to you,
And all who serve with honor, proud and true.

I've read some poems I'd written long ago,
Tenderly kept by one I love most dear,
And through them I've come to once again know,
Old feelings which inspired both warmth and fear.

For a moment I saw my love revived,
And was engulfed by growing tenderness,
There was much power in words which survived,
To pay mute homage to past happiness.

Yellowing, crinkled paper brought to me,
Glimpses of young, unbridled, simple love,
The awkward, fading words helped me to see,
That I have lived the dream I'm dreaming of.

How can I feel this painful emptiness,
When by enduring love I am so blessed?

You were only seven when you went blind,
But could see again in less than two years,
Two years later you were seeking to find,
Full time work to help your mom ease her fears.

Eight brothers and sisters home, and dad dead,
From fascists' caresses in dark, dank cells,
You rolled up your sleeves without tears or dread,
Worked full time packing fish and working wells.

At sixteen you left for a foreign shore,
Worked hard, learned to read, saved all that you could,
To pay mom’s passage and two brothers more,
Keeping a promise as you knew you would.

Of your son you were as proud as can be,
But one of your cells was worth ten of me.

I read the pages of my life so clear,
Its images dismissed as pains of youth,
And yet, though far, I see them all so clear,
Relive the fear, hope, warmth glimmers of truth.

Vague shadows visit me and leave behind,
Uneasy feelings draped in tenderness,
I see too well, yet wish that I were blind,
And fear above all else my truthfulness.

If only I believed that I could find,
One path in life to follow faithfully;
How sad that knowledge can be so unkind,
And pain the wages of our honesty.

I'd gladly give my life for peace of mind,
Yet know in life it is not mine to find.