winter

nobady dont reply to your greeting

every body are heedless

some one no words and see of friends

the path is dark and slippery

eye cant see but front foot

And if your love hand reachout one

their hand reachout reluctantly

for cold is so harsh cold.....

Breath come out of your chest

enchanged to dark a cloud

like wall stands forward your eyes

its breath than what expect of far or close friends

O...my generous messiah! O...

old dirty cloth christion...

Its so cruelly cold ...oh...

may your breath warm and happy days

reply my greeting open the door

its me guest of every night so sad gipsy

its me annoyed trembled rock

its me low creation abuse rough melody

Im neither white nor black im colurless just colerless

come open the door open my cheerlees heart

O host ! guest of year and month quivers

behaind the door like waves

not is hailston no death

if thou hear sound

its conversation of cold and tooth

why you say time passed

did dawn is morn come in

it deceive thou this is not redness after dawn on sky

nobody dont reply to your greeting

its miserable doors close

people heedless hands hidden

breath cloudy fatigued and sad hearts

trees like crystalline skeletons

low spirite earth rooftop of heaven short

dusty sun and moon

          winter is

No man understand the woman , no woman understand the man, and that is the beauty of their being together.

شعری از پابلو نرودا

به من بگویید، آیا گل سرخ برهنه است یا لباسی به تن دارد؟
درختان چرا شكوه شاخه هایشان را كتمان می كنند ؟
آیا كسی شكوه های یك ماشین به سرقت رفته را شنیده است ؟
آیا چیزی در این جهان غمگین تر از توقف یك قطار در باران هست؟


Tell me, is the rose naked
or is that her only dress?


Why do trees conceal
the splendor of their roots?


Who hears the regrets
of the thieving automobile?



Is there anything in the world sadder
than a train standing in the rain?

We only part to meet again.

Never part without loving words to think of during your absence.  It may be that you will not meet again in this life. 

A goodbye isn't painful unless you're never going to say hello again. 

Missing someone gets easier every day because even though it's one day further from the last time you saw each other, it's one day closer to the next time you will.

Sweet is the memory of distant friends!  Like the mellow rays of the departing sun, it falls tenderly, yet sadly, on the heart.

Great is the art of beginning, but greater is the art of ending.

The best things said come last.  People will talk for hours saying nothing much and then linger at the door with words that come with a rush from the heart. 

A man never knows how to say goodbye; a woman never knows when to say it. 

Good-byes breed a sort of distaste for whomever you say good-bye to; this hurts, you feel, this must not happen again.

Goodbyes are not forever.
Goodbyes are not the end.
They simply mean I'll miss you
Until we meet again!

One hot evening in Padua they carried him up onto the roof and he could look out over the top of the town. There were chimney swifts in the sky. After a while it got dark and the searchlights came out. The others went down and took the bottles with them. He and Luz could hear them below on the balcony. Luz sat on the bed. She was cool and fresh in the hot night.

Luz stayed on night duty for three months. They were glad to let her. When they operated on him she prepared him for the operating table; and they had a joke about friend or enema. He went under the anaesthetic holding tight on to himself so he would not blab about anything during the silly, talky time. After he got on crutches he used to take the temperatures so Luz would not have to get up from the bed. There were only a few patients, and they all knew about it. They all liked Luz. As he walked back along the halls he thought of Luz in his bed.

Before he went back to the front they went into the Duomo and prayed. It was dim and quiet, and there were other people praying. They wanted to get married, but there was not enough time for the banns, and neither of them had birth certificates. They felt as though they were married, but they wanted everyone to know about it, and to make it so they could not lose it.

Luz wrote him many letters that he never got until after the armistice. Fifteen came in a bunch to the front and he sorted them by the dates and read them all straight through. They were all about the hospital, and how much she loved him and how it was impossible to get along without him and how terrible it was missing him at night.

After the armistice they agreed he should go home to get a job so they might be married. Luz would not come home until he had a good job and could come to New York to meet her. It was understood he would not drink, and he did not want to see his friends or anyone in the States. Only to get a job and be married. On the train from Padua to Milan they quarreled about her not being willing to come home at once. When they had to say good-bye, in the station at Milan, they kissed good-bye, but were not finished with the quarrel. He felt sick about saying good-bye like that.

He went to America on a boat from Genoa. Luz went back to Pordonone to open a hospital. It was lonely and rainy there, and there was a battalion of arditi quartered in the town. Living in the muddy, rainy town in the winter, the major of the battalion made love to Luz, and she had never known Italians before, and finally wrote to the States that theirs had only been a boy and girl affair. She was sorry, and she knew he would probably not be able to understand, but might some day forgive her, and be grateful to her, and she expected, absolutely unexpectedly, to be married in the spring. She loved him as always, but she realized now it was only a boy and girl love. She hoped he would have a great career, and believed in him absolutely. She knew it was for the best.

The major did not marry her in the spring, or any other time. Luz never got an answer to the letter to Chicago about it. A short time after he contracted gonorrhea from a sales girl in a loop department store while riding in a taxicab through Lincoln Park.

Ernest Hemingway

دور گردون گر دو روزی بر مراد ما نگشت                   دائماً یکسان نماند حال دوران غم مخور

If, for a space of two days, to our desire,

The sphere's revolutions turned not,

Ever, in one way, the state of

Revolution is not:

Suffer not grief