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By Pablo Neruda

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

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Bran, most of Pablo Neruda's poems are poignant and soul-shattering.
Like his "Tonight I'll Write The Saddest Line"

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Bran, what you've just said is more poignant. I feel that after my father's death. I have many untold feelings of pain and sorrow.

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Bran, yesterday I wrote an e-mail to Edelweiss, our friend here in TubagBohol, and I mentioned to her those times that my father would fetch me at the office because he was worried over my safety. As I was writing the email, I felt that I was crying inside and my tears began to fall.

I feel the same emotional impact upon reading your recent post, Bran.

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Mike,

I was never able to reply to this post of yours, my apologies. The death of my best friend will--always have an effect on me. When I say that it has an effect on me--I mean it in that I never was able to say goodbye to him, nor was he strong enough to contain himself from leaving us. Many things left unsaid, many words remained to be told, many discussions left on hold. Many regards in the cold. Preparations for meetings in the week, are put on the side for the meek. So too do tears that drop from face to table, one must be brave to move...if one is able.

It is a painful struggle one has to deal with--and only by the passage of time does one allow one's broken heart to gather enough strength to do the impossible.

Moving On.

It has been 2 years since you wrote this, and there is not a day in my life that I do no think of my best friend. Whom I loved as a brother.

We can only think of the positives and remember the lifelong memories we made and smile and raise our glasses to those memories.




Yours,
Bran

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