Quia Amore Langueo

In a valley of this restles mind
I sought in mountain and in mead,
Trusting a true love for to find.
Upon an hill then took I heed;
A voice I heard (and near I yede)
In great dolour complaining tho:
See, dear soul, how my sides bleed
Quia amore langueo.

Upon this hill I found a tree,
Under a tree a man sitting;
From head to foot wounded was he;
His hearte blood I saw bleeding:
A seemly man to be a king,
A gracious face to look unto.
I askèd why he had paining;
[He said,] Quia amore langueo.

I am true love that false was never;
My sister, man's soul, I loved her thus.
Because we would in no wise dissever
I left my kingdom glorious.
I purveyed her a palace full precious;
She fled, I followed, I loved her so
That I suffered this pain piteous
Quia amore langueo.

My fair love and my spouse bright!
I saved her from beating, and she hath me bet;
I clothed her in grace and heavenly light;
This bloody shirt she hath on me set;
For longing of love yet would I not let;
Sweete strokes are these: lo!
I have loved her ever as I her het
Quia amore langueo.

I crowned her with bliss and she me with thorn;
I led her to chamber and she me to die;
I brought her to worship and she me to scorn;
I did her reverence and she me villany.
To love that loveth is no maistry;
Her hate made never my love her foe:
Ask me then no question why—
Quia amore langueo.

Look unto mine handes, man!
These gloves were given me when I her sought;
They be not white, but red and wan;
Embroidered with blood my spouse them brought.
They will not off; I loose hem nought;
I woo her with hem wherever she go.
These hands for her so friendly fought
Quia amore langueo.

Marvel not, man, though I sit still.
See, love hath shod me wonder strait:
Buckled my feet, as was her will,
With sharpe nails (well thou may'st wait!)
In my love was never desait;
All my membres I have opened her to;
My body I made her herte's bait
Quia amore langueo.

In my side I have made her nest;
Look in, how weet a wound is here!
This is her chamber, here shall she rest,
That she and I may sleep in fere.
Here may she wash, if any filth were;
Here is seat for all her woe;
Come when she will, she shall have cheer
Quia amore langueo.

I will abide till she be ready,
I will her sue if she say nay;
If she be retchless I will be greedy,
If she be dangerous I will her pray;
If she weep, then bide I ne may:
Mine arms ben spread to clip her me to.
Cry once, I come: now, soul, assay
Quia amore langueo.

Fair love, let us go play:
Apples ben ripe in my gardayne.
I shall thee clothe in a new array,
Thy meat shall be milk, honey and wine.
Fair love, let us go dine:
Thy sustenance is in my crippe, lo!
Tarry thou not, my fair spouse mine,
Quia amore langueo.

If thou be foul, I shall thee make clean;
If thou be sick, I shall thee heal;
If thou mourn ought, I shall thee mene;
Why wilt thou not, fair love, with me deal?
Foundest thou ever love so leal?
What wilt thou, soul, that I shall do?
I may not unkindly thee appeal
Quia amore langueo.

What shall I do now with my spouse
But abide her of my gentleness,
Till that she look out of her house
Of fleshly affection? love mine she is;
Her bed is made, her bolster is bliss,
Her chamber is chosen; is there none mo.
Look out on me at the window of kindeness
Quia amore langueo.

My love is in her chamber: hold your peace!
Make ye no noise, but let her sleep.
My babe I would not were in disease,
I may not hear my dear child weep.
With my pap I shall her keep;
Ne marvel ye not though I tend her to:
This wound in my side had ne'er be so deep
But Quia amore langueo.

Long thou for love never so high,
My love is more than thine may be.
Thou weepest, thou gladdest, I sit thee by:
Yet wouldst thou once, love, look unto me!
Should I always feede thee
With children meat? Nay, love, not so!
I will prove thy love with adversitè
Quia amore langueo.

Wax not weary, mine own wife!
What mede is aye to live in comfort?
In tribulation I reign more rife
Ofter times than in disport.
In weal and in woe I am aye to support:
Mine own wife, go not me fro!
Thy mede is marked, when thou art mort:
Quia amore langueo.

Anonymous English Poem. 15th Century.



GLOSSARY: yede] went. het] promised. bait] resting-place. weet] wet. in fere] together. crippe] scrip. mene] care for.

Fly me to the moon

Fly me to the moon
And let me play among the stars
Let me see what spring is like
On Jupiter and Mars
In other words hold my hand
In other words darling kiss me

Fill my life with song
And let me sing forevermore
You are all I hope for
All I worship and adore
In other words please be true
In other words I love you

Written by Bart Howard. Sang by Frank Sinatra (and others)

everything

Last night I dreamt I was walking between the stars. Earth was far away and looked peaceful and still in the night. Who would have thought one could walk on nothingness! Stars were small and glittering, and looked soft like silk. You could touch them at pleasure. No harm, no fear. They caressed my skin as I walked on by. Lovingly. Tenderly. Caring. Still walking on nothingness. Alone but not lonely as I strolled by the stars towards earth, I felt at ease. With a peaceful feeling in my heart, as if EVERYTHING was plainly right.

and it never happened

I slept all throughout the day and woke up to find an uneasy afternoon on a heavy storm menace. All I wanted was to go out in the rain. And let the rain wash away feelings. All of them. Maybe that way I could get rid of the lump in my stomach. Even if that meant not feeling anything else.
But that wouldn't happen, just like so many things that don't happen just because you feel you can't do them. So I still have that lump. And now it feels like it's gonna stay.

Tell tales

Whisper in my ear, tell me stories, let me see life through your eyes.

fly

Keep flying while you can. Fly like its the last thing you'll do in your lifetime. And make it a way of living; invest all your passion into it. One day you'll find you have lived your life enjoying everything that happened through it. What can make a human being happier than that?

domingo en el parque

El sol calienta mi cara mientras hablamos. En una mañana de junio como esta probablemente el sol nos está matando lentamente con sus rayos UVA, UVB y un montón de ellos más de los que no recuerdo el nombre. Dicen que el sol ya no es como antes, que ahora hace más daño, quema más que cuando nuestros abuelos eran pequeños. Nosotros venimos cada domingo, nos tumbamos a recibir el calor que carga nuestras pilas para el resto de la semana. Pero hoy es diferente, la gente pasea por el parque con la cabeza gacha y sin hablar. No recuerdo que haya ocurrido nada significativo para que el estado de ánimo general haya cambiado. Igual soy yo la que ha cambiado. Quiza es sólo que ahora les presto atención.