Cointreau...and Poe's "the Raven"
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'"
The one woman I ever loved enough to actually want to get married with has just left home. A pair of keys is the only sign that she ever was here. It was a quick split. She came today to pick up her stuff and was out in less than 5 minutes, which is good for she spared me from the indignity of crying in front of her.
Thing is, as much as I am not a man of profuse drinking, my pain was a little bit too unbearable, and I keep no alcohol in my house since she objected me keeping a bottle of Scotch. All I could find was a bottle of Cointreau. Malgré moi, it is sweet, and strong, and eases the pain I hope just enough to carry me through the night.
At this moment comes to my mind a sonnet from an Argentinean author, Enrique Banchs. A curious guy that only wrote a book of sonnets (all of them excellent) and then refused to write anything else in his life. I will try to translate it in my broken english:
Both at the same time were my waning luck:
small pain, diminute joy
Cast aside, without a doubt, Life left me,
Without a doubt, cast aside, Death left me.
I feared that peace that quietly ties down
the strongest, thinnest, most vibrating nerve;
I feared my soul, slowly growing inert
turned to be forever muted.
But Silence, barely broken was
immobile stalking from a hidden beast...
Suddenly it jumped on the silent track,
and then I knew about the brave life,
so much, that now I only yearn for
diminute pain and small joy.
(Sorry, I am sad and a little drunk)