Every night in my dreams
I see you. I feel you.
That is how I know you go on.

Far across the distance
And spaces between us
You have come to show you go on.

Near, far, wherever you are
I believe that the heart does go on
Once more you open the door
And you're here in my heart
And my heart will go on and on

Love can touch us one time
And last for a lifetime
And never let go till we're gone

Love was when I loved you
One true time I hold to
In my life we'll always go on

Near, far, wherever you are
I believe that the heart does go on
Once more you open the door
And you're here in my heart
And my heart will go on and on

There is some love that will not
go away

You're here, there's nothing I fear,
And I know that my heart will go on
We'll stay forever this way
You are safe in my heart
And my heart will go on and on


Otra que también me gusta es Angels, de Robbie Willliams:

I sit and wait
Does an angel contemplate my fate ?
And do they know
The places where we go
When we're grey and old ?
'Cos I've been told
That salvation lets their wings unfold
So when I'm lying in my bed
Thoughts running through my head
And I feel that love is dead
I'm loving angels instead

CHORUS:
And through it all she offers me protection
A lot of love and affection
Whether I'm right or wrong
And down the waterfall
Wherever it may take me
I know that life won't break me
When I come to call
She won't forsake me
I'm loving angels instead

When I'm feeling weak
And my pain walks down a one way street
I look above
And I know I'll always be blessed with love
And as the feeling grows
She breathes flesh to my bones
And when love is dead
I'm loving angels instead

Chorus x 2

There used to be a greying tower alone on the sea.
You became the light on the dark side of me.
Love remained a drug that's the high and not the pill.
But did you know,
That when it snows,
My eyes become large and
The light that you shine can be seen.

Baby, I compare you to a kiss from a rose on the grey.
Ooh, the more I get of you,
Stranger it feels, yeah.
And now that your rose is in bloom,
A light hits the gloom on the grave.

There is so much a man can tell you,
So much he can say.
You remain, my power, my pleasure, my pain, baby
To me you're like a growing addiction that I can't deny.
Won't you tell me is that healthy, baby?
But did you know,
That when it snows,
My eyes become large and the light that you shine can be seen.

Baby, I compare you to a kiss from a rose on the grey.
Ooh, the more I get of you
Stranger it feels, yeah.
Now that your rose is in bloom,
A light hits the gloom on the grave,
I've been kissed by a rose on the grave,

I've been kissed by a rose
I've been kissed by a rose on the grave,
...And if I should fall along the way
I've been kissed by a rose
...been kissed by a rose on the grave.

There is so much a man can tell you,
So much he can say.
You remain, my power, my pleasure, my pain.
To me you're like a growing addiction that I can't deny, yeah
Won't you tell me is that healthy, baby.
But did you know,
That when it snows,
My eyes become large and the light that you shine can be seen.

Baby, I compare you to a kiss from a rose on the grey.
Ooh, the more I get of you
Stranger it feels, yeah.
Now that your rose is in bloom,

A light hits the gloom on the grave.
Yes I compare you to a kiss from a rose on the grey
Ooh, the more I get of you
Stranger it feels, yeah.
And now that your rose is in bloom
A light hits the gloom on the grave.
Now that your rose is in bloom,
A light hits the gloom on the grave

i am very very sick guys that why i am not here long time i am sorry really i miss u . (K) ... i have to go home I hope tomorrow to spend more time with you ... plz dont forget me (K)(K) i am sick i am sad
i am sick i am sad i am sick i am sad i am sick i am sad i am sick i am sad i am sick i am sad i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , i am sick i am sad , love me plz miss me

Camposanto

A la memoria de. En recuerdo de.
En memoria del muy amado. En su
Recuerdo. Muerto en octubre. Muerto en el mar.
¿Quién se murió en el mar? El nombre de aquel puerto
Se le escapa, arrastrado por el viento del este,
Sobre tumbas y tejos, voló entre los manzanos,
Sobre el camino, donde reluce una carreta,
Y se fue. Desde el mar trota el viento del este
Con sal y con gaviotas. La marisma, además,
Huele fuerte en septiembre, juncos y fango, juncos
Crujiendo como huesos.

Se pasa las tijeras de podar
De una mano a la otra, poda y poda la hierba.
La columna truncada, truncada con cuidado, donde
Se ríe el mirlo hembra -- a la memoria de.
¡Burden! ¿Quién fue este Burden que hemos de recordar?
¿O Potter, ese Potter rehusado por el pote?
«Aquí yace Josephus Burden, que abandonó
Este mundo el cuatro de agosto, mil novecientos.
"Y Dios le dijo: ven."» Josephus Burden, de cuarenta,
Irreverente, grueso, manos fuertes, peludas,
Y orejas rojas retorcidas, con pelo, y de ojos azul norte,
En una mano un martillo, en la otra
Un clavo. Lo clavó... ¿Fue suficiente?
¿O es que también amó?

Se cambia
De mano las tijeras. No cortan. La hierba está mojada
Y se pega a los filos. A la memoria de.
Cuatro cadenas cercan la cripta, muy pesadas. ¿Qué posibilidades
Tienen los esqueletos? Los muertos salen por la noche,
Hacen sonar los eslabones. «¡Demasiado pesadas! No se pueden mover...
Otra vez, todos juntos. ¡AHORA!... Es imposible.»
Se sientan en lo oscuro, sin luna, hablan tranquilamente.
«Fue el viejo Jones, sin duda, quien hizo estas cadenas.
¡Me gustaría verlo ahora levantarlas!...» El buho
Que caza en Wickham Wood viene a ver, y maulla.
«Un buho», dice uno. «Seguro», dice otro.
Ladean sus cabezas cenicientas.

La brisa trae el roto
Sonido de campanas entre tejos y tumbas, hace sonar
Las volutas de bronce en las piedras al sol.
Sagrada... A la memoria... Tu muy querido... Oh Dios,
Cuánta parodia. El mirlo ensucia
La columna truncada; el gusano en el cráneo
Se da un festín de médula; y el impúdico tordo
Tritura un caracol en la cripta. Murió embarcado; entonces,
¿qué mejor que una tumba en el mar?

De rodillas,
Mocada contra el césped, poda y poda,
Con el mundo sujeto entre las dos rodillas, medita
Hacía abajo, como si sus pensamientos, tal hombres o manzanas,
Ya maduros cayeran a la tierra. Azul de mar, sus ojos
Se vuelven hacia el mar. Son carroñeras las gaviotas,
De cara cruel, pero al fin bellas. En el embarcadero
Los juncos crujen, moviéndose con el viento del este, crujen
Como huesos. A la memoria de. Dios mío,
La vida es lo que es, y no cambia.
Tú ahí en la tierra, y de rodillas yo encima de ti.
Tú muerto ya, yo viva.

Ella pica un llantén
De raíces demasiado ambiciosas. Ese tejo tan grande
Sujeta la colina.

Se alza de sus rodillas
Entumecidas, rígidas, pisa el camino de guijarros que baja
Al mar y a la ciudad. El olor a marisma
Sube sano y salado, y llena su nariz. Los juncos bailan
Con el viento del este, crujen; las currucas se cruzan,
Brillando en el vaivén de los juncos, y cantan.

God's acre

In Memory Of. In Fondest Recollection Of.
In Loving Memory Of. In Fond
Remembrance. Died in October. Died at Sea.
Who died at sea? The ñame of the seaport
Escapes her, gone, blown with the eastwind, over
The tombs and yews, into the apple orchard,
Over the road, where gleams a wagon-top,
And gone. The eastwind gallops up from sea
Bringing salt and gulls. The marsh smell, too,
Strong in September; mud and reeds, the reeds
Rattling like bones.

She shifts the grass-clipper
From right to left hand, clips and clips the grass.
The broken column, carefully broken, on which
The blackbird hen is laughing - in fondest memory.
Burden! Who was this Burden, to be remembered?
Or Potter? The Potter rejected by the Pot.
'Here lies Josephus Burden, who departed
This life the fourth of August, nineteen hundred.
"And He Said Come." ' Joseph Burden, forty,
Gross, ribald, with strong hands on which grew hair,
And red ears kinked with, hair, and northblue eyes
Held in one hand a hammer, in the other
A nail. He drove the nail... This was enough?
Or -- also -- did he love?
She changes back
The clipper. The blades are dull. The grass is wet
And gums the blades. In Loving Recollection.
Four chains, heavy, hang round the vault. What chance
For skeletons? The dead men rise at night,
Rattle the links. 'Too heavy! can't be budged...
Try once again -- together NOW!... no use.'
They sit in moonless shadow, gently talking.
'Oíd Jones it must have been, who made those chains.
I'd like to see him lift thern now!'... The owl
That hunts in Wickham Wood comes over, mewing.
'An owl,' says one. 'Most likely,' says another.
They turn grey heads.

The seawind brings a breaking
Bell sound among the yews and tombstones, ringing
The twisted whorls of bronze on sunlit stones.
Sacred... memory... affectionate... O God
What travesty is this -- the blackbird soils
The broken column; the worm at work in the skull
Feasts on medulla; and the lewd thrush cracks
A snailshell on the vault. He died on shipboard --
Sea-burial, then, were better?

On her knees
She clips and clips, kneeling against the sod,
Holding the world between her two knees, pondering
Downward, as if her thought, like men or apples,
Fell ripely into earth. Seablue, her eyes
Turn to the sea. Sea-gulls are scavengers,
Cruel of face, but lovely. By the dykes
The reeds rattle, leaping in eastwind, rattling
Like bones. In Fond Remembrance Of. O God,
That Ufe is what it is, and does not change.
You there in earth, and I above you kneeling.
You dead, and I alive.

She prods a plantain
Of too ambitious root. That largest yew-tree,
Clutching the hill --

She rises from stiff knees,
Stiffly, and treads the pebble path, that leads
Downward, to sea and town. The marsh smell comes
Healthy and salt, and filis her nostrils. Reeds
Dance in the eastwind, rattling; warblers dart
Flashing, from swaying reed to reed, and sing.

This is the shape of the leaf, and this of the flower,
And this the pale bole of the tree
Which watches its boughs in a pool of unwavering water
In a land we never shall see.

The thrush on the bough is silent, the dew falls softly,
In the evening is hardly a sound.
And the three beautiful pilgrims who come here together
Touch lightly the dust of the ground,

Touch it with feet that trouble the dust but as wings do,
Come shyly together, are still,
Like dancers who wait, in a pause of the music, for music
The exquisite silence to fill.

This is the thought of the first, and this of the second,
And this the grave thought of the third:
"Linger we thus for a moment, palely expectant,
And silence will end, and the bird

"Sing the pure phrase, sweet phrase, clear phrase in the twilight
To fill the blue bell of the world;

And we, who on music so leaf like have drifted together,
Leaflike apart shall be whirled

Into what but the beauty of silence, silence forever?" . . .
. . . This is the shape of the tree,
And the flower, and the leaf, and the three pale beautiful pilgrims
This is what you are to me.


Retrato de una muchacha

Esta es la forma de una hoja, y esta la de una flor,
y éste es el pálido tronco de un árbol
que contempla sus ramas en un charco de agua estancada
en una tierra que nunca veremos.

El tonto en la rama, silencioso, suave cae el rocío,
en el atardecer casi no hay sonidos...
Y las tres hermosas peregrinas que llegan juntas
tocan ligeramente el polvo del suelo.

Lo tocan con pies que apenas turban el polvo, como alas,
tímidas, aparecen juntas, silenciosas,
como bailarinas aguardando en una pausa de la música, la música
que llene el exquisito silencio...

Este es el pensamiento de la primera, y éste el de la segunda,
y éste el grave pensamiento de la tercera:
"Nos demoraremos así por un instante, pálidamente expectante,
y el silencio terminará, y el pájaro

cantará la pura, dulce, clara frase del crepúsculo
hasta llenar la campana azul del mundo;

y nosotras, a quienes la música reunió como a hojas,
como hojas seremos arrastradas.

¿Hacia qué sino la belleza del silencio, perpetuo silencio?,,,"
esta es la forma del árbol,
y la flor y la hoja, y las tres hermosas peregrinas pálidas:
eso eres para mí.

Two coffees in the Español, the last
Bright drops of golden Barsac in a goblet,
Fig paste and candied nuts... Hardy is dead,
And James and Conrad dead, and Shakspere dead
,And old Moore ripens for an obscene grave,
And Yeats for an arid one; and I, and you --
What winding sheet for us, what boards and bricks,
What mummeries, candles, prayers and pious frauds?
You shall be lapped in Syrian scarlet, woman,
And wear your pearls, and your bright bracelets, too,
Your agate ring, and round your neck shall hang
Your dark blue lapis with its specks of gold.
And I, beside you -- ah! But will that be?
For there are dark streams in this dark world, lady,
Gulf Streams and Arctic currrents of the soul;
And I may be, before our consummation
Beds us together, cheek by jowl, in earth,
Swept to another shore, where my white bones
Wil lie unhonored, or defiled by gulls.

What dignity can death bestow on us,
Who kiss beneath a streetlamp, or hold hands
Half hidden in a taxi, or replete
With coffee, figs and Barsac make our way
To a dark bedroom in a wormworn house?
The aspidistra guards the door; we enter,
Per aspidistra-then-ad astra-is it?-
And lock ourselves securely in our gloom
And loose ourselves from terror...Here´s my hand,
The white scar on my thumb, and here's my mouth
To stop your murmur; speechless let us lie,
And think of Hardy, Shakspere, Yeats and James;
Comfort our panic hearts with magic names;
Stare at the ceiling, where the taxi lamps
Make ghots of light; and see, beyond this bed,
That other bed in which we will not move;
And, whether joined or separate, will not love.
(...)


Dos cafés en el español

Dos cafés en El Español, las últimas
brillantes gotas de dorado Barsac en una copa,
pasta de higo y garrapiñados... Hardy está muerto,
y James y Conrad muertos, y Shakespeare muerto,
y el viejo Moor madura para una tumba obscena,
y Yeats para una estéril; y yo, y tú-
¿Qué sudarios para nosotros, qué tablas y ladrillos,
qué farsas, velas, preces y piadosos engaños?
Tú estarás envuelta en escarlata de Siria, mujer
y te pondrán tus perlas, y brillantes pulseras
y tu anillo de ágata, y colgará en tu cuello
tu lapislázuli azul con pintas de oro.
Y yo , a tu lado -¡ah! pero ¿será así?
Porque hay oscuras corrientes en este mundo oscuro, señora,
corrientes del Golfo y Árticas del alma;
y yo seré quizás, antes que nuestra consumación
nos acueste juntos, mejilla contra mejilla, bajo la tierra
barrido a otra costa donde mis blancos huesos
yacerán olvidados o profanados por gaviotas.

¿Qué dignidad podrá la muerte conferir a nosotros,
que nos besamos bajo un farol en la calle, nos cogemos de las manos
medios ocultos en un taxi o repletos
de café , de higos y Barsac nos dirigimos
a una oscura alcoba en una casa carcomida?
La aspidistra guarda la puerta; entramos,
per aspidiastra -luego ad satra- ¿no es así?
Y nos enllavamos seguros en nuestras tinieblas
nos soltamos del terror... aquí está mi mano,
la cicatriz blanca en mi pulgar, y aquí está mi boca,
para acallar tu rumor, tendidos sin hablar
pensemos en Hardy , Shakespeare, Yeats o James;
calmemos con mágicos nombres nuestro pánico.
Miremos al techo, donde los focos de los taxis
forman espectros de luz, y veamos, más allá de este techo,
aquel otro lecho en que no nos moveremos:
y , junto o separados, no amaremos.
(...)

Es temprano en la mañana y al otro lado de la calle
las ventanas de un cuarto de hotel están tapadas
con las tropicales ejecuciones de una
mujer desvistiéndose, dentro de The Eatery,
un chico, azulado por el neón, está sentado a la mesa,
y mis vecinos se engancharon a sí mismos con
los roles del matrimonio infeliz y
como carriola ruedan sus tres mastines calle abajo.
Yo estoy escribiendo este libro de poemas. Mi nombre
es Lynn Emanuel. Llevo puesta una bata de baño
y ruleros; desde mis labios un Marlboro echa ceniza
sobre el texto. Es el tres de septiembre de 19...,
estoy pensando, pero a veces pierdo el hilo.
Y mientras estoy escribiendo esto con mis trifocales
y zapatillas, al otro lado de la calle, Sharon Stone,
su cabeza hinchada de ruleros, su boca
roja y estrecha como una zapatilla de danza
está entrando apresurada en una limusina negra.
Y como estas limusinas serpentean
por mi cuadra hacia un lado y otro
este libro estará lleno de coches de elegantes trompas
entre un vago océano de palabras.
Cada mañana, Sharon Stone, su cabeza
en un casco de peinado, usando una visera
de anteojos de sol, es engullida por una limusina
del tamaño de un Pullman, y toda su flota
enrolla y desenrolla su ruta calle arriba calle abajo
día tras día, dando a la calle
(Avenida Liberty en Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania)
y el libro que estoy escribiendo, un aspecto
que es al mismo tiempo glamoroso y funeral.
Mi nombre es Lynn Emanuel, y en este
libro yo hago el papel de alguien que escribe
un libro, y tomo mi papel tan seriamente
como Sharon Stone toma seriamente
el rol de joven estrella. Yo miro los oscuros
coches que la hacen desaparecer y en mi poema
otro Pontiac viene a dormitar
como un gran animal en los frescos pesebres
de sombreadas barbadas, Así que, cuando veas
este coche negro, no pienses que es un
Símbolo Para Algo. Es solamente
Sharon Stone manejando por delante de la casa
de alguien que está, en ese momento,
tratando de escribir un libro de poemas.
O puedes pensar que el coche negro es
Lynn Emanuel, porque, realmente, como autora,
yo tuve siempre deseos de ser un coche, aún cuando
la mayor parte del tiempo yo tuve que ser
"Yo", o la mujer pendiente de la ropa para lavar;
yo soy una mujer, un minuto, entonces yo soy un hombre,
yo soy un carnaval de Lynn Emanuels:
Lynn con el vestido rojo, Lynn malhumorada
detrás de la gran nariz de su erección,
entonces soy el tren entrando en la estación
siempre y cuando realmente me guste serlo
Gertrude Stein espiando a Sharon Stone
a la seis de la mañana. Pero satisfechos con
eso, retrocedamos a la decoración de interiores:
En la página, la ciudad se ve sin rodeos
y poco atractiva así que vuelvo mis lentes en
un radioactivo vistazo sobre los malos tipos.
En una cocina, amontono cacerolas relucientes de grasa,
y en una mesada hay un rosbif
rojo como una cara con rabia. En medio de toda esta
insulsa cosa desconocida, es Sharon Stone quien,
como en una invitación grabada, está preguntándome,
¿No quieres tú también representar un papel?
Yo elijo la limusina negra, y calle abajo las doradas
lunas de los faros de mi limusina ruedan llevando
con ellas el sol, y la luna, y Sharon Stone
que está mirando fijamente la lejana y luminosa ventana
de una casa donde, todo este tiempo, alguien
estuvo seriamente rotulando con su nombre, este poema.

It's early morning. This is the "before,"
the world hanging around in its wrapper,
blowzy, frumpy, doing nothing: my
neighbors, hitching themselves to the roles
of the unhappily married, trundle their three
mastiffs down the street. I am writing this
book of poems. My name is Lynn Emanuel.
I am wearing a bathrobe and curlers; from
my lips, a Marlboro drips ash on the text.
It is the third of September nineteen.
And as I am writing this in my trifocals
and slippers, across the street, Sharon Stone,
her head swollen with curlers, her mouth
red and narrow as a dancing slipper,
is rushed into a black limo. And because
these limos snake up and down my street,
this book will be full of sleek cars nosing
through the shadowy ocean of these words.
Every morning, Sharon Stone, her head
in a helmet of hairdo, wearing a visor
of sunglasses, is engulfed by a limo
the size of a Pullman, and whole fleets
of these wind their way up and down
the street, day after day, giving to the street
(Liberty Avenue in Pittsburgh, PA)
and the book I am writing, an aspect
that is both glamorous and funereal.
My name is Lynn Emanuel, and in this
book I play the part of someone writing
a book, and I take the role seriously,
just as Sharon Stone takes seriously
the role of the diva. I watch the dark
cars disappear her and in my poem
another Pontiac erupts like a big animal
at the cool trough of a shady curb. So,
when you see this black car, do not think
it is a Symbol For Something. It is just
Sharon Stone driving past the house
of Lynn Emanuel who is, at the time,
trying to write a book of poems.
Or you could think of the black car as
Lynn Emanuel, because, really, as an author,
I have always wanted to be a car, even
though most of the time I have to be
the "I," or the woman hanging wash;
I am a woman, one minute, then I am a man,
I am a carnival of Lynn Emanuels:
Lynn in the red dress; Lynn sulking
behind the big nose of my erection;
then I am the train pulling into the station
when what I would really love to be is
Gertrude Stein spying on Sharon Stone
at six in the morning. But enough about
that, back to the interior decorating:
On the page, the town looks bald
and dim so I turn up the amps on
the radioactive glances of bad boys.
In a kitchen, I stack pans sleek with
grease, and on a counter there is a roast
beef red as a face in a tantrum. Amid all
this bland strangeness is Sharon Stone,
who, like an engraved invitation, is asking
me, Won't you, too, play a role? I do not
choose the black limo rolling down the street
with the golden stare of my limo headlights
bringing with me the sun, the moon, and
Sharon Stone. It is nearly dawn; the sun
is a fox chewing her foot from the trap;
every bite is a wound and every wound
is a red window, a red door, a red road.
My name is Lynn Emanuel. I am the writer
trying to unwrite the world that is all around her.

The hardest part of any friendship is when it's time to say goodbye. As much as we might like things to stay the same, change is an inevitable part of life. The universe may seem huge and the rift between friends on opposite side of the world may seem a great distance. There are many tools available with which we can communicate, but even without these tools there is a secret that only real friends know, and it is this. All the mountains and valleys in the world cannot separate friends whose hearts are as one.

Poem:

I couldn't find the right words
Nothing seemed to rhyme
To write something for you all
I think it will take time

Because when you have friends
That are very hard to find
There's so much to say
Because you make everything alright

So I will tell you right now
exactly what I need to say
To show you how much I appreciate
You being there everyday

You're worth more than anyone
even a million pounds
Because you always know what to say
When I am feeling down

You make me smile big smiles
And my days so very bright
And when I lose my way
You find me in the night

I sometimes wish I could explain
How much you mean to me
But its just not possible
To list a billion things

So I just wanted to say
I love you so so much
And I hope you never leave me
Promise to stay in touch