Green, yellow, red, stop.

I walked through a busy market in Paris until I hit a stoplight that left me without the knowledge of misfortune or pleasure awaiting me.

Either way, I'm glad I waited
because moments later here I am staring at what I hoped would be; the one.

I remember you were seated on your pastel blue bicycle,
the ones with the basket in the front carrying a baguette
I mean, how french can one get?

You had blonde hair, you were blue eyed
I still remember what you looked like.
You looked exactly like someone I thought I would never be right by

Face to face
You looked back at me and smiled.

It kinda reminded me of that one story by John Green where this dude named Augustus Waters met this girl named Hazel Grace and he falls in love with her in an instant so on and so forth because

This was something similar.

I didn't know you,
But I felt as if we potentially were operating on the same wavelength,
and I loved that.

It's crazy how only three seconds can paint out a situation that
makes it feel like a lifetime of what seemed to be only pure bliss.

Three seconds was all it took.
Three seconds was all it took for the stars that bled through your eyes to align with mine-
a constellation that only happened once in a lifetime

But who you think you are to me was just a girl riding her bicycle.
And I was just a boy pointing his camera at a direction towards someone of both beauty and of worth.
It was almost as though you were just a vision in my dream as she looked comforted

Yet her eyes stood out as if she had just smelled the scent of coffee.

In perfect constrast, her eyes, they glimmered, they shined brighter than all the stars within her.

But both beauty and worth couldn't comprehend to this feeling.

She was unstoppable and she took everything she ever wanted with a smile.

Red, yellow, green, go.

Three seconds turned out to what seemed to be that moment where time and only time stood still.

Three seconds turned out to what seemed to be three lifetimes.

Three seconds was all it took to imagine what my life would be without you by my side.

L’amour fait les plus grandes douceurs et les plus sensibles infortunes de la vie.

Love makes the greatest pleasures and most sensitive misfortunes of life.

Señora Muerte que se va llevando
todo lo bueno que en nosotros topa!...
Solos -en un rincón- vamos quedando

los demás... ¡gente mísera de tropa!
Los egoístas fatuos y perversos
de alma de trapo y corazón de estopa...;

manufactores de fugaces versos;
poetas de cuadrícula y balanza,
a toda pena, a todo amor adversos..:

los que gimen patética romanza;
lacrimosos que exhiben su película;
versistas de salón y contradanza;

cantores de la tórrida canícula;
del polo frío, del canoso invierno...
líricos de alma exánime y ridícula!

Bardos que prostituyen el eterno
jardín, y que florecen madrigales
de un olor soporífero y externo...

Vates ultra-sensibles y banales
que ningún vaho de verdad anima.
Gramáticos solemnes y letales...

Malabaristas de estudiada esgrima!
¡Oh tristeza perenne de las cosas
que no tienen sabor, -hechas a lima!

...En un rincón quedamos las tediosas
gentes sin emoción, huecas y vanas...
¡Lléguense las nocturnas mariposas

fúnebres, y que lloren las campanas...!
Este fastidio que me está matando...
¿dónde las almas íntimas, hermanas...?

¡Señora Muerte se las va llevando!

Ser en la vida romero,
romero sólo que cruza siempre por caminos nuevos.
Ser en la vida romero,
sin más oficio, sin otro nombre y sin pueblo.
Ser en la vida romero, romero..., sólo romero.
Que no hagan callo las cosas ni en el alma ni en el cuerpo,
pasar por todo una vez, una vez sólo y ligero,
ligero, siempre ligero.

Que no se acostumbre el pie a pisar el mismo suelo,
ni el tablado de la farsa, ni la losa de los templos
para que nunca recemos
como el sacristán los rezos,
ni como el cómico viejo
digamos los versos.
La mano ociosa es quien tiene más fino el tacto en los dedos,
decía el príncipe Hamlet, viendo
cómo cavaba una fosa y cantaba al mismo tiempo
un sepulturero.
No sabiendo los oficios los haremos con respeto.
Para enterrar a los muertos
como debemos
cualquiera sirve, cualquiera... menos un sepulturero.
Un día todos sabemos
hacer justicia. Tan bien como el rey hebreo
la hizo Sancho el escudero
y el villano Pedro Crespo.

Que no hagan callo las cosas ni en el alma ni en el cuerpo.
Pasar por todo una vez, una vez sólo y ligero,
ligero, siempre ligero.

          Sensibles a todo viento
          y bajo todos los cielos,
          poetas, nunca cantemos
          la vida de un mismo pueblo
          ni la flor de un solo huerto.
          Que sean todos los pueblos
          y todos los huertos nuestros.

Un immense frisson émeut la plaine obscure.
C'est l'heure où Pythagore, Hésiode, Epicure,
Songeaient ; c'est l'heure où, las d'avoir, toute la nuit,
Contemplé l'azur sombre et l'étoile qui luit,
Pleins d'horreur, s'endormaient les pâtres de Chaldée.
Là-bas, la chute d'eau, de mille plis ridée,
Brille, comme dans l'ombre un manteau de satin
Sur l'horizon lugubre apparaît le matin,
Face rose qui rit avec des dents de perles
Le bœuf rêve et mugit, les bouvreuils et les merles
Et les geais querelleurs sifflent, et dans les bois
On entend s'éveiller confusément les voix ;
Les moutons hors de l'ombre, à travers les bourrées,
Font bondir au soleil leurs toisons éclairées ;
Et la jeune dormeuse, entrouvrant son œil noir,
Fraîche, et ses coudes blancs sortis hors du peignoir,
Cherche de son pied nu sa pantoufle chinoise.

Louange à Dieu ! toujours, après la nuit sournoise,
Agitant sur les monts la rose et le genêt,
La nature superbe et tranquille renaît ;
L'aube éveille le nid à l'heure accoutumée,
Le chaume dresse au vent sa plume de fumée,
Le rayon, flèche d'or, perce l'âpre forêt ;
Et plutôt qu'arrêter le soleil, on ferait
Sensibles à l'honneur et pour le bien fougueuses
Les âmes de Baroche et de Troplong, ces gueuses !

Jersey, le 28 avril 1853.

SEQUENCE ONE 1
The revolving year is rolling round towards its end The departing sun sinks down in funerals of fire Shadows already dark with the nothingness of night Drain the last glimmers of light from the dying day.
You come down a deserted Somerset lane, dismal, Dreary, muddy gutters choked with last years’ leaves Hedges bare and wind sighing between the thorns – So this is it then? Well it’s not much I have to say Just a **** in the ground with a corridor in it;
I bend down and squeeze myself into the passage
It’s damp and dark, sticky mud, puddles, cold stones
I shiver, If there were ever spirits here they’ve gone.
What a disappointment! What else was I expecting?
A waste of time. Hardly worth a visit. And yet –
To my surprise I find I can hardly tear myself away
Like going to see a friend and ****** he’s not in
And yet his empty room is his, it’s still full of him;
I am caught, compelled, drawn by I don’t know what -
They mixed up the bones, so the archaeologists say Ceremoniously moving them from chamber to chamber Skulls in one pile, femurs in another, thigh bones, hips - How strange! Involuntarily I shudder – pull yourself Together! Be sensible. And yet why did they do it?
Were they trying to fend off the emptiness of death
With ritual? That final howling black nothing that still
Today lies a cold tombstone hidden in all our hearts?
Or did they come here surprised? Did they see the dancing Spirits with inward Intellectual eyes? Did they pierce Through the veil of earthly sensibles to the bright invisibles?
My imagination escapes me and begins to race and soar Down the corridor we did not take through the door We never opened into the rose garden where the bones Are dancing amongst the roses, hurling and whirling

Hands and feet flying, in a flash in an infinite timeless
Crash of a nano-second skeletons shaking and howling with Laughter, jitterbugging bones leaping about in the bright light, Cavorting and jumping and shouting and yelling and bounding Sockets flying to joints and joints flying to sockets, stamping
And kicking as they rise up from their graves in the bright morning Faster and faster goes the wild dancing rocking and rolling
The shining bones somersaulting supple bending and bowing:
Yet I saw too
That inside time endings are beginnings and opposites meet; They are also sedately dancing to stately slow music
In recurring patterns of grave solemn bliss in their unbounded State of total consciousness, like the prisoners coming out Blinking shily unaccustomed to light in Fidelio,
The music, I note, is that of Beethoven Opus 132, the adagio Thanksgiving to God for recovery from my sickness.
The vision fades, the damp musty smell of earth returns Troubling questions hang like shadows in the dark corners Of the passage grave down the corridor we did not take
To where Mr Eliot’s beautiful lady waits – or does she? –
In that garden we imagined where I saw the spirits dancing Although I only pretended that I did – how can I entertain Such fantasies? And yet I cannot quite shake off the thought In spite of all my rational doubts that this is how it really is.

Fools craft constant rage
Sensibles temper the fires of wrath