I Don't Know
I don't know why the rain
Leaves up there its old clothes,
The heavy grey clouds,
To go to sleep on our hillsides.
I don't know why the wind
Amuses itself on clear mornings
By spreading the laughter of children,
The fragile bells of winter.
I know nothing about all that,
But I know I love you still.
I don't know why the road
Which pushes me toward the city
Has the dull odor of the ruin
Of poplar after poplar.
I don't know why the veil
Of the icy fog which hangs around me
Makes me think of cathedrals
Where we pray for our dead loves.
I know nothing about all that,
But I know I love you still.
I don't know why these streets
Open before me one by one
Untouched and cold, cold and naked,
Nothing but my footsteps, and the footsteps of the moon.
I don't know why the night,
Playing me like a guitar,
Has forced me to come here
To cry at this station.
I know nothing about all that,
But I know I love you still.
I don't know at what time departs
That sad train for Amsterdam
Which a couple must take tonight,
A couple in which you are the woman.
And I don't know for which port
Departs from Amsterdam that great ship
Which breaks my heart and my body,
Our love and and my future.
I know nothing about all that,
But I know I love you still
But I know I love you still.
Compare this to Sting's Internalized Understanding of life in "The Book of my Life" with this sing exploring the effort to incorporate sensory experiences in moments with love. Both approach it from mystical none understanding, a schism in a schema, of knowing and unknowing, of memories swirling around a abyss of instinct poorly understood yet cognizant of at the same time, defying of expression beyond skeptic poetic bards. The search for the self is the search if the other. That's what texts like the Hypnerotomachia Poliphili are about.
Isn't that self evident?
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=hSLqkYxYxD0
Let me watch by the fire and remember my days
And it may be a trick of the firelight
But the flickering pages that trouble my sight
Is a book I'm afraid to write
It's the book of my days, it's the book of my life
And it's cut like a fruit on the blade of a knife
And it's all there to see as the section reveals
There's some sorrow in every life
If it reads like a puzzle, a wandering maze
Then I won't understand â??til the end of my days
I'm still forced to remember,
Remember the words of my life
There are promises broken and promises kept
Angry words that were spoken, when I should have wept
There's a chapter of secrets, and words to confess
If I lose everything that I possess
There's a chapter on loss and a ghost who won't die
There's a chapter on love where the ink's never dry
There are sentences served in a prison I built out of lies.
Though the pages are numbered
I can't see where they lead
For the end is a mystery no-one can read
In the book of my life
There's a chapter on fathers a chapter on sons
There are pages of conflicts that nobody won
And the battles you lost and your bitter defeat,
There's a page where we fail to meet
There are tales of good fortune that couldn't be planned
There's a chapter on god that I don't understand
There's a promise of Heaven and Hell but I'm damned if I see
Though the pages are numbered
I can't see where they lead
For the end is a mystery no-one can read
In the book of my life
Now the daylight's returning
And if one sentence is true
All these pages are burning
And all that's left is you
Though the pages are numbered
I can't see where they lead
For the end is a mystery no-one can read
In the book of my life
Time, Individuality, Necessity. Of self, of presumptions of Another, the cominging of existence and erethral doubt, unconditioned by the poundings throngs of desire and remembrance.
It is sad, for most, the person we love more than anyone is ourselves, first and foremost. Only when the instincts push us to self sacrifice can we learn aspects of love the mind can't otherwise comprehend. It defies all logic, makes all logic possible, is the most logical, all other thoughts, are but a commentary that misses the essential, the bigger binding picture. A divided man cannot love, but loves the most. A broken heart mends in forgetting, and rediscovering. What is cherished becomes the ways and means, and everything reminds you. Lost is a great remembering. Death is a great awakening.
