Kira is touched by how far Trace will go to make her dreams come true. Looking up at her husband as if for the first time, she realizes she has all the family she needs. It's then that she's given a miracle Lone wolf Boone Gifford has spent years standing on the outside. Now he's looking at Christmas--through the window of beautiful Amelia's home. The snow falls hard--the stranded family needs help. It's time for the cowboy to step inside. Kelley is rancher, housekeeper, doting sister to Amelia, granddaughter and aunt--and the stress of preparing the perfect Christmas at Rocking H ranch is getting to her.
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But distraction soon arrives in the form of delectable chef Mack Dennison Luke never saw himself as a cowboy. But he is a Randell, and the land is in his blood. Now it-s calling him back. Tripping in the dark, we found that invisible space darkness forms with its wall of siege, and we found naked solitude all alone exhaling its empty beatings in silence. Nothing exists now and the two walkers, by different but painfully similar roads, frantically look for the luminous life of the fragile star they both put out. One day, we will each tire of walking alone, lonely, through this eternal night and surround ourselves with our own lonely deaths; but then our deaths, with a new life, will save the star we lost from the shadows, and in its light we will already be invisible love.
Las cuento, muchas veces, muchas veces Y si gozo al contar, es porque siento que busco a Dios, contando sus estrellas. I have counted them many, many times I stretch out and also limit myself to the defenseless contour that delivers me to the island of oblivion where I forget. If I am his owner, why do I feel estranged from him disconnected from myself— shade of a tree — suffocating bark of my anguish, bandage that blindfolds me, fragile scaffold, magnet keeping me together and pulling me apart, matter that I drag and that drags me?
This union of elements, this nest of physical battles, of incessant reactions, is my only support, the tragic origin of the force that sustains me even speaking all alone.
Todo vive latente en el silencio como en la sombra habita la luz muerta. Everything lives latent in silence like the light of death inhabiting the shadow. Inaudible latir de excavaciones son las palabras idas que siguen existiendo, sin semblante, en el libre escondite del espacio. They are souls in grief imploring the instant that articulates the sonorous vertigo of their verb, or the ardent look of some eyes reading them in their grave of letters, exhuming their experience only to sink again to the renewed dawn of the image. You were born in me, entwined in a growing root, a cosmic knot; deep within me, the rambunctious colt longs for freedom, in love.
II Who can I turn to in my torture?
What divinity, which bright star can I ask to give this bitter sweetness to someone else? Who should I call in this dark, burning blood where I am dying? Who can I beg for a bit of tenderness in this pain of despair? In the great, eternal turning, I must do something, so when he hears my voice he will lift my words to his ear.
En tu existencia veo, transparentada, la historia virginal de los primeros espasmos de la luz, y los veneros de la girante red astralizada. In which constellations have you sparkled? How much sorrow, how many deaths, hurricanes, lightning bolts and dawns before you achieved bodily form? IV When your eyes opened to the view, you saw what truly gave life to the brightest stars and passion to the lifeless earth.
In this pulse of living darkness where insomnia gathers its strength trying to connect my yearnings, with the natural desire to love growing beyond bounds, I can live eternities in an instant. They hid your body, CHE GUEVARA, but you keep on living in the unstoppable pulse of hours, we feel you disguised as mountain, as lightning, as the angry sea, the millennial tree or the vast, free countryside.
They stole your eyes, CHE GUEVARA, but you keep watching us with the fresh look of children, in the sun that rises each day, with the lofty beating of the stars and with the forests colored by hope. DIOS es la suprema ausencia. God: the supreme absence.
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Supreme absence: God. This we know, my solitude and I. To think about God: to long to decipher him — to split the air and feel the pulse of the invisible cloak of his force; to look for him with doubtful eyes, to seize him from the hollow of nothingness and to shrink his vast increase to a single here and now. To savor faith with mystic rapture and to trace his monumental face with faithful longing losing ourselves in the highest depths; after tumbling through many an abyss with the crisp hollow of great volume that melts in smoke when touched. Swollen with arrogance, we arise and climb — on the imaginary outpouring that wipes out prayers and destroys the biblical warmth that gives us breath — to the eyeless time of the emptiness to the dead weakness of the stars and from there to fall, banished, to the loneliest island of anguish.
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Already in the black depths of its own entrails, ceaselessly dissecting its shadows, it keeps on sifting through the bones, through the wailing, the waves, the veins until reaching the cross of defeat — the collapse of the body within the conscience. To pull ourselves together: to shriek, to come back from the shadows with more fury to destroy the intimate failure and to return again to what we were before, continuing the search, the tracking, the stubborn descent within the chest and the futile leap toward the heights. To think about God: to want to create him by gathering together diverse fantasies highlighting their sharp contrasts, that explode into debris and get lost in the mortal fall toward the clouds leaving us cut off, certain that he becomes more immense the harder we imagine him.
To abolish him: to sense an eternity of solitude slipping away making us feel that no one grasps our growing onslaught of glances and that the entire, immense, misty, foggy labyrinth that surrounds our tangled paths is a stellar illusion. I rest from the luminous false path, the smoking hole of the crater of emptiness, souls of millennia of broken light or dust of celestial fossils. Inquirentes caer en el espacio con su veloz asenso — como piedras que del suelo rodaran cuesta arriba y el avance las fuera carcomiendo adarme por adarme —, hasta que quedarnos libres de todo peso y toda forma, disgregados en nada y deglutidos por la insaciable gula giratoria.
Salirnos del pavor Searchers falling through space — our speeding ascent like stones rolling up hill along the ground, eroding away bit by bit — until we are left free of all weight and form, disintegrated into nothingness and swallowed by an insatiable greed. To leave dread To join together, reconnecting to what we were and returning to live in the same body, the same nightmare, the same lament, the same stubbornness to grasp, from what cannot be grasped, the same untouchable source that created us Es natural morir. We must die, but stay awake! Still, we turn our vision toward space to make it like our own; the earth, like solid tenderness and the entire universe as a unique nest without walls to protect us.
To laugh hysterically at God: to challenge his silence with courage, to demand that he tell us what we are, why we are here and where we are going And with no response or even glance, we conclude that we invented him with hope, fear, expected longing and a yearning to become immortal. Conscious, convinced, exalted, to really live, boldly hoisting the perception of the senses and the imagination in full light, to merge the eternal with the ephemeral. Braiding strands of emotions, we can leave behind a pulse that survives us. To feel his formation, his growth, his freeing himself from us like a torrent that lifts us in a rising circular scale.
To convince ourselves that he is born of us like an unstoppable germination of nostalgia of origin, or a longing thirst from the center of energy. Finally, to realize that we create him because of our inevitable need not to feel alone, and the consolation of gaining refuge that eliminates this stubborn obsession, this torture of knowing that we will be only dust contrite dust, dust without memory, long-suffering orphans of dust Freed at last, without false hopes, owners of our own will without fear of revenge or punishment: to enjoy the natural existence that life gives us each day with increasing love and, in love with the sky, planets, seas and horizons, clouds, roses, trees and their fruits, to share the delight that completes us, never again to feel that we are lonely orphans or slaves of our silent destiny This poem has turned into my dilettantish obsession.
This is the last effort I can make trying to clarify and perfect it. I dare to contemplate your brightness to feel your luminous purity, to climb the heights where you appear with my yearnings but never to touch you nor place my caresses on the brilliant skin of your mystery. I know where you appear each day.
I know the exact spot and the precise hour when your face shows its beauty.
I know your celestial orbit by heart that glorious instant when you shine closest to my eyes and also the moment you leave and steal away your likeness. I know I am your owner from afar, that when I discovered you I won the right to come out each night to watch your expressive, errant light, your immaculate, brilliant youth, without the least hope of embracing the truth of you in my arms.
I invented you with the alchemy of my dreams. I dressed you with the impossible. In your eyes I began a poem and I enthroned your image on high. Keep shining! Shine a few more days! Soon death will lower my eyelids — and suddenly you will be left in the dark. Tengo miedo de todo. Tengo miedo de caer sin nombre, sin memoria y sin cuerpo, en la eternidad del olvido y del silencio. I am afraid of everything.