Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time

W.H. Auden

The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them - words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revalations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller, but for want of an understanding ear.

The Nights Where I Couldn't Write

The Nights Where I Couldn't Write
I went
to the ocean blue
to hear
a thousand chains
dragged on
marble floors
I went
to the mountain green
to smell
the stench
of rotting flesh
So I hid
in my room
and bolted the doors
to pick up
the chains
and smell the stench
to lay dead
on my bed
for the ocean
to take me away
while the
mountains
watch over me

Where is your mama?
as you sleep
on cardboards that
used to wrap
refrigerators
and when you snuggle
up only to feel your
elbows against your
knees on a rainy
night while taxis
pass by without
blowing their horns
in a highway without
traffic
in the middle
of the night.

Where is your mama?
as you puff cigarettes
like a marlboro chimney
with every penny you have saved
from not washing your face
and walking on hot cement
while the sun is out
to burn your little feet
and spare your tiny hands.

Where is your mama?
as you fight with bigger kids
to earn your day's glue
to grant you dreams
while you walk in a crowd
full of people who look away
when they stare right through your eyes
afraid they would only see..
themselves.

 some joys are better expressed in silence,
as a smile hold more meaning than laughter,
i was asked if i enjoyed meeting you in life,
i just smiled...
me too...
 
 i do anything so that you love me
i change my face
i'll look like the way you want
i change my attitude
i'll be what you want
i change my words
i'll say what you want
i even change my name
call me what you want
do you love me now?
no wait!
dont love me please
i've changed so much
that i'm gonna hate myself now

Herve Joncour, a French silkworm trader, undertakes several hazardous journeys to Japan in the 1860s, to purchase the finest silkworm eggs in the world. The travel itself is incidental to the tale, and Baricco deals with it perfunctorily, in a formalised repetition that captures the cadence of tedium in repeated travels. While in Japan, Joncour is profoundly struck by a deep and aching desire for the concubine of Hara Kei, a feudal warlord who owns silkworm eggs, an aviary filled with exotic birds, a village and all its inhabitants, and the girl. This passion draws Joncour back to Japan time and again, and, though their relationship is unrequited, except indirectly in a stunningly written ritual bathing scene, his feelings for the girl deeply affect his life with his wife and friends in France.
 
Don't miss reading silk by alessandro baricco

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write for example, 'The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to a pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.
Her voice. Her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

Because of you, in gardens of blossoming flowers I ache from the
perfumes of spring.
I have forgotten your face, I no longer remember your hands;
how did your lips feel on mine?
Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks,
the white statues that have neither voice nor sight.
I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten
your eyes.
Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of
you. I live with pain that is like a wound; if you touch me, you will
do me irreparable harm.
Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on melancholy walls.
I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every
window.
Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me; because
of you, I again seek out the signs that precipitate desires: shooting
stars, falling objects.

pablo neruda

i'm so tired...