When One Cannot Write, One Pastes.

Because I am always pressed for time these days, I am doomed to merely paste poems, photos, and songs that I fancy. Cutesy stuff.

Ack.

I miss writing.

Here's a poem from Ernesto Priego's Not Even Dogs.

Third City

I never thought it would be you;
I had postponed your ancient name.
You start, indeed, by the end,
Termini opening doors towards your secrets.
With you
I walked many hours, everyday,
reading you like an ancient book
not dusty but luminous,
profound,
unending as everything in you is
memory written,
inscribed on stone and sky
as nights are warm,
starry, lonely moons
high above the always illuminated ruinous streets full of heartache.
Dionisos rules over your crooked streets
and distracts drunk lovers with sharpened arrows,
angel-thrown, by centuries of stories.
Late dinner, lonely, cheap red bottle,
one after another,
thinking of how some things remain, no matter what.
El olvido no existe aquí,
under your street red and white candle-light,
one feeling noli me tangere,
like the poet, the murdered emperor.
In my dreams I am always walking in and out of you,
cathedrals,
temples, churches,
complete lost cities, surviving the darkness of continuous time.
In dreams I walk you again,
and realize it should be you,
instead, the city of lights.