Poetry must be human. If it is not human, it is not poetry. - Vicente Aleixandre
SONG OF A LAST MEETING
Though I stepped o'er the threshold lightly,
At my heart icy fingers clawed,
And the glove I wore on my right hand
On my left hand belonged, I saw.
Steps ... so many, they left me panting,
But I knew there were only three.
From the maples there came a plaintive
Whisper autumnal: "Die with me!
"I'm betrayed by my bleak, my changeful,
By my mischievous fate..." "I too!"
I replied. "O my love, my angel,
I will die, I will die with you..."
One last song, song of one last meeting...
Dark the house ... I looked up, went on.
In the bedroom window a fleeting
Yellow light impassively shone.