November mornings
I like fall-winter mornings. They’re gentle. The sun is out, but not bold. It’s foggy, but not cloudy. It’s cold, so warm woolens make you feel hugged. There’s a few green trees, yet, a few rustling leaves. Like hope and destiny, side by side.
Like the entire world is at peace, in balance. Somehow, you just know that everything is going to be alright. Because everything feels right in November mornings.
I Do Not Love You...
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms,
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers.
Thanks to your love a certain fragrance,
risen darkly from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride,
so I love you because I know no other way than this:
where “I” does not exist, nor “you,”
So close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
So close that your eyes close and I fall asleep.
- Pablo Neruda
The Square Root of Three
by David Feinberg (read by Kal Penn in Harold and Kumar Escape From Guantanamo Bay)
I fear that I will always be
A lonely number like root three
The three is all that’s good and right,
Why must my three keep out of sight
Beneath the vicious square root sign,
I wish instead I were a nine
For nine could thwart this evil trick,
with just some quick arithmetic
I know I’ll never see the sun, as 1.7321
Such is my reality, a sad irrationality
When hark! What is this I see,
Another square root of a three
Has quietly come waltzing by,
Together now we multiply
To form a number we prefer,
Rejoicing as an integer
We break free from our mortal bonds
With the wave of magic wands
Our square root signs become unglued
Your love for me has been renewed
