Would you ever get stuck
Rear lap horn
I would love to go for a walk with you on a spring day, under a gray sky and among leaves from last year that the wind blows through the streets in the neighborhoods of the suburbs; and it should be sunday. These areas often bring up thoughts that are full of melancholy and big; those hours are full of poetry that binds the souls of those who love each other. And it gives birth to hopes, ineffable ones, begotten by the endless horizons behind the houses, the retreating, fleeing trains, by the clouds in the south. We would just hold hands and move with an easy step and talk about this and that, things that are as nonsensical as they are valuable. Until the street lamps are lit and the eerie stories of the city emerge from the miserable dwellings, the adventures, all these tales that are so appealing. And so we would be silent, still holding hands, because souls speak to one another without words. But you - now I remember again - would never just talk to me about this and that, about things that are as nonsensical as they are valuable. That is why you can never love Sundays as I describe them, and your soul does not know how to speak to mine in silence, you would not recognize the magic of the city at the right time, nor those hopes that come from the south descend us. You prefer the lights, the hustle and bustle, the men who look after you, the streets where you can make your fortune, as they say. You are different from me and if you came to me that day for a walk you would complain about how tired you are. Just that and nothing else.
I would also like to hike with you in the summer in a lonely valley, and laugh at the simplest things, explore the secrets of the forests, the gravel roads, and certain abandoned houses. Stop on the wooden bridge and watch the water run by, leaning against telegraph poles, listening to the long, endless story that comes from one end of the world and that nobody knows where it's going. And pick flowers in the meadows, and there, stretched out in the grass, in the quiet of the sun, in the shallows of the sky and the white clouds that pass by the mountain peaks, sink. You would say, "How wonderful!" You wouldn't say anything else because we would be happy; our bodies would have shed the weight of the years, the souls would have been renewed, as if they had just been born. However, if I think about it now, you'd rather look around you without understanding, I'm afraid, and stop worried and check your stockings, ask me for another cigarette, impatiently wait for the way back. You wouldn't say "How wonderful!", But poor things that are of no importance to me. Because unfortunately you are who you are. And we wouldn't be happy even for a single moment.
I would even like - let me tell you - I would even like to stroll with you, arm in arm, through the main streets of the city, in the sunset of a November day, when the sky is made of pure crystal. When the spirits of life run over the domes and roofs and touch the dark masses of people at the bottom of the trenches of those streets that are so full of unrest. When memories of blissful times and new premonitions sweep across the earth and carry a kind of music with them. With the innocent pride that children have, we would look into the faces of the others, those thousands upon thousands who rush past us by our side. We would, unknowingly, radiate a glow, and all could not help but look at each other; not with envy and resentment; but with a slight smile, with a feeling of benevolence. That made the evening that freed people from their weaknesses. But you - I know that only too well - instead of looking at the crystal sky, or at the planes sparkling as they are struck by the light of the low-lying sun, you would like to stop and look into the displays, at the jewelry, the riches, the silk, all those pathetic things. And because of that you would not notice the ghosts, nor the premonitions that pass by. And you would not, like me, feel called to an enviable fate. And you would neither listen to that kind of music, nor would you understand why people look at you with such kind eyes. You would think of your poor morning, and in vain the golden statues above you would stretch their swords towards the last rays of the sun. And I would be alone. It is useless. Maybe these are all just follies, and you are much better than me because you don’t attach all of this to life. Maybe you're right and it's stupid to try. But at least, at least that, I want to see you again. Be that as it may, we will somehow come together and we will have our joy. It doesn't matter whether it's day or night, summer or winter, in an unfamiliar village, an unadorned house, a poor inn. I will be satisfied with having you close to me. I will not stand there - I promise - and listen to the mysterious creaking under the roof, or look at the clouds, I will not pay attention to the music and the wind. I will forego those useless things that I love so much. I will be patient if you do not understand what I am saying or if you talk about things that are completely alien to me, if you complain about the worn clothes or the money. There will be no so-called poetry, shared hopes, or sadnesses that are all so related to love. But I'll have you near me And we will succeed, you will see to be quite happy, with great simplicity, only woman and man, as happens all over the world.
But you - only now it occurs to me - are far too far away, hundreds and hundreds of kilometers, so difficult to overcome. You are in the middle of a life I don't know and there are other men by your side who you are probably smiling at, like me in days gone by. There wasn't enough time to forget me, you probably can't even remember my name. I have fallen away from you, lost under innumerable shadows. And yet I always have to think of you, and I like to say all these things to you.
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