“The days arent discarded or collected, they are bees that burned with sweetness or maddened the sting: the struggle continues, the journeys go and come between honey and pain. No, the net of years doesnt unweave: there is no net. They dont fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river. Sleep doesnt divide life into halves, or action, or silence, or honor: life is like a stone, a single motion, a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves, an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metal that climbs or descends burning in your bones.” ― Pablo Neruda
Posted on: Sun, 31 Aug 2014 06:46:50 +0000