Bolivar and San Martin: Guayaquil, Ecuador

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Why I Write

It suddenly occurs to me that
I do not possess
the skill to relate
your virtues to the world.
Were I Neruda, or Spenser,
Or Byron your quiet beauty
would by now be known
around the world,
And in days yet to come
My words would dwell
in lovers' minds,
Framing their passion,
Teaching their lips to speak
the language of the heart.

If only I could translate
this emotion into words.
If I could take this love
You have given me and
express its selfless simplicity
to the world,
Then I would take my place
among giants, and you would
live forever among the
golden pages of posterity.

And yet, though there are
limits to what my verses
may achieve, I am not
at all dismayed.

I do not write of you
with the intent of surpassing
the masters of days gone by, nor
with thoughts of launching
our names into eternity.

I write simply to
remind my heart of hope
that has been fulfilled,
and the joy of life
your beauty has restored.