Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

E. E. Cummings

Ólafur Arnalds - 3055

The Sky May Be Falling... But The Stars Look Good On You...

Welcome Otoño!

She walks in beauty

George Gordon (Lord) Byron (1788-1824)

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

Autumn - Otoño

Calma Chica

Esperando que el viento doble tus ramas...
que el nivel de las aguas llegue a tu arena ,
esperando que el cielo forme tu barro ,
y que a tus pies la tierra se mueve sola ...
pueblo estás quieto ,
cómo no sabes ...
cómo no sabes todavía,
que eres el viento la marca ...
que eres la lluvia el terremoto.

Mario Benedetti