First, our love will die, alas,
then two hundred years will pass,
then we’ll meet again at last—
This time in the theater, played
by a couple of comedians,
him and her, the public’s darlings.
Just a little farce, with songs,
patter, jokes, and final bows,
a vaudeville comedy of manners,
certain to bring down the house.
You’ll amuse them endlessly
on the stage with your cravat
and your petty jealousy.
So will I, love’s silly pawn,
with my heart broken, my joy gone,
my crown tumbling to the ground.
To the laughter’s loud refrain,
we will meet and part again,
seven mountains, seven rivers
multiplying out pain.
If we haven’t had enough
of despair, grief, all that stuff,
lofty words will kill us off.
Then we’ll stand up, take our bows:
hope that you’ve enjoyed our show.
Every patron with his spouse
will applaud, get up, and go.
They reenter their lives’ cages,
where love’s tiger sometimes rages,
but the beast’s too tame to bite.
We’ll remain the odd ones out,
silly heathens in their fools’ caps,
listening to the small bells ringing
day and night.
— Wislawa Szymborska, “Buffo” (via poetrist)
"It isn’t possible to love and part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal."
— E.M. Forster, A Room with a View (via observando)
"No matter how you look at literature, the fact is that great books are usually focused—in one way or another—on the issues of the day."
"A regret understood by no one: the regret to be a pessimist. It’s not easy to be on the wrong foot with life."
— Emil Cioran, The Book of Delusions
"Don’t be satisfied with stories, how things have gone with others. Unfold your own myth."
— Rumi, The Essential Rumi
“With relief, with humiliation, with terror, he understood that he too was a mere appearance, dreamt by another.”
― Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths: Selected Stories and Other Writings