Späte Nacht.

Zeit zum Träumen. Kreative Stunden. Die Nacht hat ein ganz besonderes Flair. Zeit haben, den Gedanken freien Lauf lassen, ihnen auch einmal nachängen dürfen.  Mit schöner Musik im Hintergrund.
Meine besten Ideen hatte ich zu später Stunde. Meine verrücktestesten, unrealististischten aber auch. Aber die Kreativtät braucht Platz. Stille vielleicht? Für mich schon.
Im Moment läuft Laura Pausini.
Schon mal gehört?

Sie hat eine wunder-  wuuunderschöne Stimme.
Eine Stimme wie ein Engel, mit tiefsinnigen Texten.
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Poems
ein besonders schönes was gerade wunderbar zur Stimmung dieser Nacht passt,  poste ich hier,  von einem meiner Lieblinge,  Pablo Neruda, der ja ein sehr eigenwilliger, kämperischer, politischer Mann war,  aber auch sehr emotionale Stücke schreiben konnte. I love it!°!!

Poem of the  Night:

I can write the saddest lines tonight.
Write for example: ‘

The night is fractured and they shiver, blue,
those stars, in the distance.
’The night wind turns in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest lines tonight.
I loved her, sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like these I held her in my arms.
I kissed her greatly under the infinite sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.

How could I not have loved her huge, still eyes.
I can write the saddest lines tonight.

To think I don’t have her, to feel I have lost her.
Hear the vast night, vaster without her.

Lines fall on the soul like dew on the grass.
What does it matter that I couldn’t keep her.

The night is fractured and she is not with me.That is all. Someone sings far off.
Far off, my soul is not content to have lost her.
As though to reach her, my sight looks for her.
My heart looks for her: she is not with me.

The same night whitens, in the same branches.
We, from that time, we are not the same.

I don’t love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the breeze to reach her.
Another’s kisses on her, like my kisses.

Her voice, her bright body, infinite eyes.‘
I don’t love her, that’s certain, but perhaps I loved her.

Love is brief: forgetting lasts so long.
Since, on these nights, I held her in my arms,
my soul is not content to have lost her.

Though this is the last pain she will make me suffer,
and these are the last lines I will write for her.
-Pablo Neruda-