The season of my soul....

The days aren't discarded or collected, they are bees

that burned with sweetness or maddened

the sting: the struggle continues,

the journeys go and come between honey and pain.

No, the net of the years doesn't unweave: there is no net.

They don't fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river.

Sleep doesn't divide life into halves,

or action, or silence, or honor:

life is like a stone, a single motion,

a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves,

an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metal

that climbs or descends burning in your bones.

-----Pablo Neruda

Done