Did he write this for me?

The Weary One

The weary one, orphan of the masses, the self, the crushed one, the one made of concrete, the one without a country in crowded restaurants, she who wanted to go far away, always farther away, didn't know what to do there, whether she wanted or didn't want to leave or remain on the island, the hesitant one, the hybrid, entangled in herself, had no place here: the straight-angled stone, the infinite look of the granite prism, the circular solitude all banished her: she went somewhere else with her sorrows, she returned to the agony of her native land, to her indecisions, of winter and summer. Pablo Neruda

Falling

She was born mad and so remains,
and regrets only being born;
for dying is long and tiresome.
For what is there besides,
being born and dying?
She's killing time,
though not without injury
to what could be eternity
Think, is she really killing time,
or is time killing her?
Eternity a pleasing,
dreadful thought;
that in an hour, she beholds.
But can she stop infinity slipping,
from the palms of her hands?
She's mad to be born,
mad to be saved,
mad to die,
desirous of everything,
all at once: She's,
a roman candle
burning in the sky,
the blue centerlight
like the stars
falling,
brief and bright
from and to which you run,
until the edge
of space and time,
where the sun
has ceased to burn
There jumps
and falls.
And all
those that watch
from the coast
of normalcy
amid the illuminations
will watch
and swear
they never saw
a falling star die
so beautifully.


(I wrote this quite some time ago using a bunch of interrelated quotes)

"As if you could kill time without injuring eternity." - Thoreau

"He not busy being born is busy dying." - Bob Dylan

"No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is
such a long tiresome business I always found." - Samuel Beckett

"We are all born mad. Some remain so." - Samuel Beckett

"Men talk of killing time, while time quietly kills them." - Dion Boucicault

"I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion." - Kerouac

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to
talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who
never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous
yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle
you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!' " - Kerouac

"Come to the edge. We might fall. Come to the edge. It's too
high! COME TO THE EDGE! And they came, and he pushed, and they
flew."- Christopher Logue

"That's not flying, that's just falling with style." - Unknown

Silence and Sirens

Copper coil resonates against callouses
She plays
Leaning towards the window looking out
She waits

Though she hears the ships that call from ports unknown
and wonders where the rain goes to when it moves on
She stays

She sings
"If the world wasn't so big,
and the day wasn't so short...
it might be better."
In tune to the ticking, tolling time
She blames her sadness on the weather,
and her problem on her place in line.

The curtains are disheveled;
the blinds are broken.
The tuning of the strings is dissonant
The rain's been falling softly for some time now
She can't remember just where that time went.