X  Today is the day Today is the day to write the poem I’ve always dreamed of. Today I remembered those timeless days. When spring shone on your face and the warm summer breeze caressed your lips. Today, as my hands tremble— the hands that used to tangle in your friendly hair during those long evenings in paradise. Today, as my vision fades from my eyes and my steps can no longer find the path, I want to write my most heartfelt poem. Today, when my dawns are already uncertain And the night reaches out its dark hands to me with which I now treat myself as a brother, Today I want to leave in your memory a flower that will never wither A memory that will never be forgotten. Today I want to write the poem I’ve dreamed of To always be by your side When my voice has fallen silent. Today is the day marked by my destiny to play my final game with life Though I already know it’s lost. X  I long for I long for the ribbons in your hair, the grace of your waist, the color of your gaze, the innocence of your smile, the taste of your kisses, the warmth of your caresses. I long for the roses in your garden, the clear water of your spring, the gentle light of your dawn, the wild passion of your sunset. And the hidden desires of your sensual twilight. I long for the paths, where the two of us used to stroll, under the almond trees in bloom, listening to the nightingale’s song, on those sleepless nights of moons full of hope, I long for those years, hours, minutes, and seconds, that we spent together, without knowing the past, only an eternal present, and without fear of death. I long for my poems from back then, without longing or memories, without loneliness or nostalgia, just verses inspired by your simple beauty, and the eloquent nature. X  Your soul The soul emerges in the unfolding of bliss, It is then that eternal grace blossoms and thirst and hope are united in marriage. Thus sadness is born on your pale cheeks. And when the tears have died away, white kisses emerge from the past. When the last drop of white dew falls, the eternity of the verses of a poet of forgotten kisses comes alive. X   The Absurdity For some reason, the sky is blue, The night is dark, The flowers are fragrant, The ivy is green, Roses have thorns, Tears are salty, autumn is melancholic, tradition is painful, death is irreversible, but there is no reason for the X   New Dawn For my Mexican friend, Olga This morning, the birds with joyful songs have awakened smiling And those with rough, out-of-tune songs have been trapped in the night. At this dawn, the flowers in your garden have sung praises to one God and have tinged your thoughts with pink and your gaze with sky blue. Today, hope has caressed you and kissed you with anticipation. This is the new day you’ve longed for with happiness within your grasp. This morning, your wishes have arrived riding on white steeds and your most hidden and enduring dreams have come of their own accord. Today, treacherous death has returned to its lair and artists have been invited to a banquet in honor of the roses celebrating their springtime birthdays. And with all this, write a poem of gratitude to dreams, to fantasy, to enchantment, and to the artist within you. In Berlin on June 5, like every June 5 X   Memories of My Childhood I remember the fleeting dreams of a forgotten child, who gazed at the sky searching for a friendly star, who walked awkwardly along the faded paths. A child who gathered the sorrows of lost joys and listened to the warm beating of his little heart, and wept in silence without visible tears, who knew neither the memory nor the lullaby that soothes, nor the warmth of forgotten hugs and premature kisses. Memories of a child surrounded by forgetfulness and absences, in an uncertain garden with flowers of his own invention, and blind, mute birds that he fed, with the scraps of everyday and family sorrows, while feeding himself with stale bread. A child whose sister was a wildflower, and whose brother was a wandering star without a lit sky His best friend was the wind and his best friend was young death, his close relatives the echoes of the valley of cherry trees and his grandparents the croaking of the frogs in the pond of his dreams, amid strangers’ smiles and unfamiliar caresses, Many nights I ask myself: Where are those memories? And an old holm oak answers me: “In the song of a goldfinch, in the murmur of a stream, and in the petals of a new flower.” And what will become of my memories when the bird dies, the stream dries up, and the flower withers? I ask the holm oak again. “They’ll be kept in a tattered book resting on a white cloud so that your memories may become April rain in an eternal spring —----------------------------------- Who… Who has erased those memories from my mind? Where are my most beautiful words? Where are my dreams and my hope? Who has replaced my voice with silence? Where has my joyful smile fled? Where are my ambition and my hope hiding? Who has stolen my future? The answer echoes in the wind: Time, time, time! —----------------------------------- The tears in your eyes are falling The tears in your eyes are falling, like rose petals torn away by the wind. The joyful days of your spring have withered just as sweet fruit falls from the old tree. The music of your youth now sounds distant just as the sunlight hides behind the hills. Your sweet words of long ago fall silent like the cool murmur of a dry stream. Your faith and hope for a great miracle are fading like the calm breeze after the storm. Your dreams drift away from your pillow like the thick fog that confuses the traveler. Your old loves are fading from your memory like rainwater disappearing down the drains. —--------------------------------------- ALAS! Alas for my teenage dreams, Torn from my heart and mind Alas for my uncompromising youth Devoted in vain to grand ideals . Alas, for my sincere and generous loves, Vanished into other loving arms. Alas, for my first passionate poems, Ridiculed and unjustly forgotten. Alas, for my books inspired by the soul, Which are incomprehensibly ignored. Alas, for my dearest memories, Which die, wounded by oblivion. Oh, if only beloved death would come one day, To take me where I can see you and once again be your faithful, old lover Berlin, 76 years after my birth Little Birdhouse It’s been a long time since I placed a little birdhouse on my balcony with the idea of winning their trust and having them closer at hand. Spring arrived, and I saw them flitting in the distance but none of them took notice of my birdhouse. Summer arrived, and sparrow chicks were everywhere, but the parents didn’t take notice of my birdhouse. “When the cold sets in,” I told myself hopefully, “then they’ll have no choice but to notice it.” Fall arrived, and with it the cold, restless nights— what better time for a bird to finally come by? But nothing—not a single bird came to my balcony or took notice of my birdhouse. Is it too cheap?—I paid one euro for it Is it too small, unsuitable, or too fancy and out of proportion? But whatever the reason, no bird took any notice of it. I was on the verge of taking it down, returning it, and even burning it. What’s the point of having a birdhouse if there are no birds? In winter I forgot about it; I watched more TV and didn’t even go out onto the balcony anymore, until one morning—cool, clear, and bright, right in the middle of winter— I was awakened by the tapping of something strange, persistent, and vigorous. There was no doubt about it: it was a bird that had finally taken notice of my birdhouse. Stealthily and mysteriously, I carefully pulled back the curtain, and there was my bird! Yellow breast, brown beak, black crest—it was the most beautiful bird in all of Berlin! It looked at the house, looked at it again, looked at it yet again—and nothing; it just wasn’t satisfied because it kept pecking at the entrance, as if it didn’t like it. Without my consent, without a word of thanks, it flew away and rejected my birdhouse After all this time! After waiting so long for that moment! For days I wondered why it was unhappy. But I didn’t take it down, for a somewhat puzzling reason: In winter, on those crisp, clear, and bright mornings I’m woken by the hammering of my demanding bird. I tell him, “Whoever offers what they can is not obligated to do more,” or however the saying goes, and he tells me, “I don’t want your ‘everything for one euro’ birdhouse; I want to wake you up so we can watch the winter sunrise together.” Since then, many mornings we’ve both watched the rising sun, me as a man, him as a bird. —--------------------------------------- Letter to My Future Today is one of the saddest days of my life, because I’ve made the bitter decision to let you go. You have to be realistic and accept it; you, too, have grown old, and your life is too short for me to entrust my ambitions to you. You no longer inspire or excite me. I still remember with great nostalgia when you and I were young. I trusted you, and you reciprocated with infinite generosity, because I believe that you, with your eloquent silence, also trusted me. You wanted to give me all the satisfaction and happiness that the future could offer, but the damned past stood in your way, and you didn’t have enough strength to free yourself from it. That’s why today I’ve decided to make peace with my past, because at least it holds the best of what we did together. But I want to leave you with fond memories, and I promise not to forget everything you’ve done for me—especially the novel, *You Won’t Dream in Vain*, which we wrote together. Goodbye, my faithful friend and companion; in the end, we all end up letting go of our future, and I am no exception, Goodbye forever, longed-for future!