Late night worries
are drowned in my coffee:
packing was never my strong suit
-is this too much?
am I taking enough?
and what about my hairdryer...?
the absurdities of vacation-
when I know that when I come back
all I'll want is to disappear again-
to get lost inside
some place/any place different from here:
I guess I should go to bed
put this anxiety to rest
and dream of flying...
And tomorrow you'll drop me at the airport
but a piece of my heart will stay with you-
at least until I come back
at least until I land.
And I thought: this is how poetry is born. It comes from invisible heights, it is secret and dark in its origins, solitary and fragrant, and like the river it will assimilate whatever falls in its current; it will seek a route between the mountains, and its crystalline song will ripple through the meadows."- Pablo Neruda