To You, who cares for my heart

What is supposedly the last day of the month, is now, the second to the last — at least for this year and every four years before and after. February is deemed to be the love month, though I think everyone will agree when no month should be designated for love as it should be celebrated daily in all its different forms, shapes, and sizes. Nonetheless, befitting the month’s theme is a poem I wrote earlier, for the One who has loved me first and never left. 

 To You who cares for my heart 022816

To Him, who cares for my heart, this is for You. Thank You for taking care of my heart, all this time. For loving me in spite of myself. It is Your love that forever remains the same and it is this same love that leaves me awestruck each and every time I try to fathom it, for I cannot in its wholeness. Truly, I cannot. 

I can only be grateful and hope that I may love You and others in Your love. 

Thank You, again, for taking of my heart and for never letting me go. 

 

 

 

I remember you as you were

(c) S. Buyco

I remember you as you were in the last autumn.
You were the grey beret and the still heart.
In your eyes the flames of the twilight fought on.
And the leaves fell in the water of your soul.

Clasping my arms like a climbing plant
the leaves garnered your voice, that was slow and at peace.
Bonfire of awe in which my thirst was burning.
Sweet blue hyacinth twisted over my soul.

I feel your eyes traveling, and the autumn is far off:
Grey beret, voice of a bird, heart like a house
Towards which my deep longings migrated
And my kisses fell, happy as embers.

Sky from a ship. Field from the hills:
Your memory is made of light, of smoke, of a still pond!
Beyond your eyes, farther on, the evenings were blazing.
Dry autumn leaves revolved in your soul.

– Pablo Neruda

Perhaps not to be is to be without your being

Perhaps not to be is to be without your being,
without your going, that cuts noon light
like a blue flower, without your passing
later through fog and stones,
without the torch you lift in your hand
that others may not see as golden,
that perhaps no one believed blossomed
the glowing origin of the rose,
without, in the end, your being, your coming
suddenly, inspiringly, to know my life,
blaze of the rose-tree, wheat of the breeze:
and it follows that I am, because you are:
it follows from ‘you are’, that I am, and we:
and, because of love, you will, I will,
We will, come to be.

– Pablo Neruda