~ by Joanne de Longchamps
Our longest love will not outlive us
but go down crying in the cold
of those sealed countries walled within.
Heat dictates the tango years
and we outlive our gliding loves,
outstay our spring and summer selves
repenting of the coldest change
when forward looking turned its face
to looking back.
all our moons ascend and snap
like children's lost balloons of light.
Over meadows moulting down,
hot landscapes alter to a thin
God-fearing city spiked with spires,
robbed of roses and of swans.
Rivers carried prints of leaves,
sucked sweetness in a riot of sun
where ice has settled down to stay—
trees are gallows waving ghosts.
There is nothing to be done but this:
Take grief to bed, last chilly lover
who will be faithful kissing in the cold.
Can anyone translate the message written on the back of this old postcard in 1928 (or was it 1916...I am not sure)? And, while Barcelona is on your mind may I suggest that you visit Carlos Lorenzo at his marvelous Barcelona Photoblog.....