Old love poem | he copied it carefully on the paper

-Chapter 1 & nbsp; Borges

what can I use to keep you?

I give you the bleak streets, the desperate sunsets, the moon in the wilderness.

I give you the sorrow of those who have been looking at the lonely moon for a long time.

I give you my dead grandparents, the souls of my dead ancestors who were sacrificed in marble;

my father's father, who was killed on the border of Buenos Aires,

two bullets pierced his chest, died with a beard, and his body was wrapped in cowhide by soldiers;

my mother's grandfather, who was only 24 years old, led a charge of three hundred men in Peru.

now they have all disappeared on horseback.

I give you all the insight that can be contained in my book,

, and all the masculinity and humor in my life.

I give you the loyalty of a man who has never believed in before.

I give you my core that I try to save-- no words to make sentences,

not to trade with dreams, untouched by time, joy, and adversity.

I give you the memory of a yellow rose I saw one evening many years before you were born.

I give you an interpretation of your life, a theory about yourself, your real and amazing existence.

I give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger and thirst of my heart; I try to impress you with confusion, danger, and failure.

What can I hold you with?

I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets,

the moon of the jagged suburbs offers you the bitterness of a man who has looked long and long at the lonely moon.

I offer you my ancestors, my dead men,

the ghosts that living men have honored in marble:

my father\ & # 39th s father killed in the frontier of Buenos Aires,

two bullets through his lungs, bearded and dead,

wrapped by his soldiers in the hide of a cow;

my mother\ & # 39; S grandfather-just twenty-four- heading a charge of three hundred men in Per ú,

now ghosts on vanished horses. I offer you whatever insight my books may hold.

whatever manliness or humor my life.

I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal.

I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved somehow-the central heart that deals not in words,

traffics not with dreams, and is untouched by time, by joy, by adversities.

I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at sunset, years before you were born.

I offer you explanations of yourself,

theories about yourself, authentic and surprising news of yourself.

I can give you my loneliness, my darkness,

the hunger of my heart;

I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.

-Chapter 2 & nbsp;

I wish there was a doorway

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the sun shines on the grass in the morning

We stand

holding our door

the door is low but the sun is bright

the grass is knotting its seeds.

the wind is shaking its leaves

We stand silent

it's beautiful

We don't have to open the door

it's ours

in the morning and night, We give him the ukulele

We don't go, we need

Land needs indestructible land

the land is rough and sometimes narrow

but it has a history

there is a sky, a moon

, a dew

in the morning  We love the land

We stand digging dirt

doors

We lean gently against

very beautiful

behind the wall. Touch the sun

-Chapter 3 & nbsp; Neruda

I can write the saddest poem tonight.

to think that I don't have her, I feel like I've lost her.

listen to the vast night, which is broader without her.

and the poem falls on the soul like dew on the grass.

what does it matter if my love can't have her?

the night is full of stars and she is not with me.

this is everything.

someone is singing in the distance. Far away.

my soul is lost because of losing her.

my eyes try to find her as if to pull her closer.

my heart is looking for her, and she is not with me.

the same night whitens the same forest.

at that time, we were no longer alike.

 I no longer love her, that's for sure, but how much I loved her.

my voice tries to find the wind to touch her hearing.

someone else's, just like she accepted my thousand kisses, she will be someone else's.

her voice, her white body, her endless eyes.

I no longer love her, that's for sure, but maybe I love her.

Love is too short, and forgetting is too long.

like tonight, I held her in my arms

my soul was lost because I lost her.

this is the last pain she put me through.

and these are the last verses I wrote for her.

love

is probably only the love of more than ten years ago, everything is not so fast.

everything is so slow that there is time to write well.

they copy love poems into books and give them to their lovers.

handwritten emotional love had a token at that time.

it and the imprint of the ring on the finger have been retained until now.