Last Letter of Major Sullivan Ballou 

(1861)

Our movement may be one of a few days duration and full of pleasure -- and it may be one of severe conflict and death to me. Not my will, but thine 0 God, be done. If it is necessary that I should fall on the battlefield for my country, I am ready. I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in, the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans upon the triumph of the Government, and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution. And I am willing -- perfectly willing -- to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt. 

But, my dear wife, when I know that with my own joys I lay down nearly all of yours, and replace them in this life with cares and sorrows -- when, after having eaten for long years the bitter fruit of orphanage myself, I must offer it as their only sustenance to my dear little children -- is it weak or dishonorable, while the banner of my purpose floats calmly and proudly in the breeze, that my unbounded love for you, my darling wife and children, should struggle in fierce, though useless, contest with my love of country? 

I cannot describe to you my feelings on this calm summer night, when two thousand men are sleeping around me, many of them enjoying the last, perhaps, before that of death -- and I, suspicious that Death is creeping behind me with his fatal dart, am communing with God, my country, and thee. 

I have sought most closely and diligently, and often in my breast, for a wrong motive in thus hazarding the happiness of those I loved and I could not find one. A pure love of my country and of the principles have often advocated before the people and "the name of honor that I love more than I fear death" have called upon me, and I have obeyed. 

Sarah, my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me to you with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly on with all these chains to the battlefield. 

The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when God willing, we might still have lived and loved together and seen our sons grow up to honorable manhood around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me -- perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar -- that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not return, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battlefield, it will whisper your name. 

Forgive my many faults, and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have oftentimes been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness, and struggle with all the misfortune of this world, to shield you and my children from harm. But I cannot. I must watch you from the spirit land and hover near you, while you buffet the storms with your precious little freight, and wait with sad patience till we meet to part no more. 

But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the garish day and in the darkest night -- amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours -- always, always; and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; or if the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by. 

Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again. 

As for my little boys, they will grow as I have done, and never know a father's love and care. Little Willie is too young to remember me long, and my blue-eyed Edgar will keep my frolics with him among the dimmest memories of his childhood. Sarah, I have unlimited confidence in your maternal care and your development of their characters. 

Tell my two mothers his and hers I call God's blessing upon them. O Sarah, I wait for you there! Come to me, and lead thither my children. 

Sullivan 

Sullivan Ballou, age 32, was killed on the battlefield in the 1st Battle of Bull Run seven days after writing this letter. 

Poi fece una cosa strana con la bocca, forse era un sorriso, aveva un dente d'oro proprio qui, così in centro che sembrava l'avesse messo in vetrina per venderlo.

A me m'ha sempre colpito questa faccenda dei quadri. Stanno su per anni, poi senza che accada nulla, ma nulla dico, fran, giù, cadono. Stanno lì attaccati al chiodo, nessuno gli fa niente, ma loro a un certo punto, fran, cadono giù, come sassi. Nel silenzio più assoluto, con tutto immobile intorno, non una mosca che vola, e loro, fran. Non c'è una ragione. Perché proprio in quell'istante? Non si sa. Fran. Cos'è che succede a un chiodo per farlo decidere che non ne può più? C'ha un'anima, anche lui, poveretto? Prende delle decisioni? Ne ha discusso a lungo col quadro, erano incerti sul da farsi, ne parlavano tutte le sere, da anni, poi hanno deciso una data, un'ora, un minuto, un istante, è quello, fran. O lo sapevano già dall'inizio, i due, era già tutto combinato, guarda io mollo tutto tra sette anni, per me va bene, okay allora intesi per il 13 maggio, okay, verso le sei, facciamo sei meno un quarto, d'accordo, allora buonanotte, 'notte. Sette anni dopo, 13 maggio, sei meno un quarto, fran. 

Non si capisce. È una di quelle cose che è meglio che non ci pensi, se no ci esci matto. Quando cade un quadro. Quando ti svegli un mattino, e non la ami più. Quando apri il giornale e leggi che è scoppiata la guerra. Quando vedi un treno e pensi io devo andarmene da qui. Quando ti guardi allo specchio e ti accorgi che sei vecchio. Quando, in mezzo all'Oceano, Novecento alzò lo sguardo dal piatto e mi disse: "A New York, fra tre giorni, io scenderò da questa nave". Ci rimasi secco. Fran.

"— ¿Entonces qué haremos?

— El Amor.

— ¿Seguro?

— Sí.

— Bien, me voy desnudando.

— ¿Y para qué te estás quitando la ropa?

— Pues para hacerlo.

— ¿Quién te dijo que tienes que desnudarte para HACER EL AMOR?

— Pues que yo sepa así se hace.

— No, esa no es la única forma de hacer el Amor. 

— ¿Y cómo entonces?

— Sólo déjate puesta la ropa y conversemos hasta cansarnos, riámonos por nada y por todo, mirémonos despacito hasta intentar descifrarnos. 

Conmigo no necesitas desnudarte de cuerpo, sino de alma, sólo mirémonos hasta quedarnos sin palabras, y allí, en ese instante en que las palabras sean insuficientes para explicar lo que sentimos, en ese silencio infinito al fin podremos tocarnos. ¿Comprendes?

— ¿Tocarnos?

— Sí, tocarnos con la dócil ternura de una caricia que se expanda dulcemente hasta morir en un abrazo.

— Ay, qué bonito.

— Mira, ¿me dejas sostener tu mano?

— Sí.

— ¿Sientes? esa es una de las formas de hacer el Amor

De eso se trata.

Tú sólo déjate puesta la ropa y hablemos hasta cansarnos, sólo mirémonos la boca, las pestañas, los labios por un rato y si el beso es necesario vendrá sin pedir permiso.

Hablemos hasta saber todas nuestras memorias, hasta saber nuestros más hondos secretos, tan sólo déjame mirarte hasta el deleite más extremo y exquisito, déjame verte el ALMA hasta el cansancio, hasta que estos ojos se rindan y me obliguen a bajar los párpados incitándome a dormir.

— ¿Y vas a forzarlos a permanecer abiertos?

— Sí, para mirarte toda la noche...

Solamente a tí 

— Alors, que faisons-nous maintenant ?

— L'amour.

— Tu en es sûr ?

— Sí.

— Très bien, je vais me déshabiller.

— Attends, pourquoi retires-tu tes vêtements ?

— Eh bien... pour le faire, non ?

— Qui t'a dit qu'il fallait se déshabiller pour faire l'amour ?

— C'est comme ça qu'on fait, n'est-ce pas ?

— Non, ce n'est pas la seule façon de faire l'amour.

— Et alors, comment ?

— Garde tes vêtements. Parlons, discutons jusqu'à ce que nos voix s'épuisent. Rions pour tout et pour rien, plongeons nos regards l'un dans l'autre jusqu'à chercher des fragments d'éternité dans nos silences. Faisons-nous l'amour non pas avec nos corps, mais avec nos âmes.

Regardons-nous, encore et encore, jusqu'à ce que les mots deviennent inutiles, jusqu'à ce que le silence devienne plus éloquent que toutes les phrases. Et là, dans ce vertige muet, nous pourrons enfin nous toucher. Tu comprends ?

— Nous toucher ?

— Oui. Mais pas de la manière dont tu l'imagines. Nous toucher avec la douceur d'une caresse suspendue, qui glisse lentement jusqu'à se dissoudre dans l'éternité d’un câlin.

— C’est beau.

— Donne-moi ta main.

— Sí.

— Tu sens ? Là, dans cette chaleur silencieuse, réside une des mille façons de faire l'amour.

C’est ça, l’essence même.

Garde tes vêtements. Parlons jusqu'à ce que le jour se lasse de nous écouter. Laisse-moi te regarder, observer la courbure de tes cils, la courbe de tes lèvres, et si un baiser doit naître, il viendra sans qu’on le convoque.

Parlons encore, jusqu'à ce que nos mémoires n’aient plus de secrets, jusqu'à ce que nos âmes s’ouvrent sans retenue. Laisse-moi te contempler jusqu’à atteindre un plaisir sans égal, un délice pur et absolu. Laisse-moi te fixer, longtemps, jusqu’à ce que mes propres paupières fléchissent et m’invitent à rêver de toi.

— Et si tes yeux refusent de se fermer ?

— Alors je les garderai ouverts… pour te contempler toute la nuit.

Juste toi.

Dear Milena,

I wish the world were ending tomorrow. Then I could take the next train, arrive at your doorstep in Vienna, and say: “Come with me, Milena. We are going to love each other without scruples or fear or restraint. Because the world is ending tomorrow.” Perhaps we don’t love unreasonably because we think we have time, or have to reckon with time. But what if we don't have time? Or what if time, as we know it, is irrelevant? Ah, if only the world were ending tomorrow. We could help each other very much.

Last night I dreamed about you. What happened in detail I can hardly remember. All I know is that we kept merging into one another. I was you. You were me.

Dreamscape 12 -
Truth: The Dreams of Bears 

from

The Unwinding
(Jackie Morris)

If I said that my love for you was
like the spaces between the notes of a wren’s song,
would you understand?
Would you perceive my love to be, therefore,
hardly present, almost nothing?

Or would you feel how my love is wrapped
around by the richest, the wildest song?
And, if I said my love for you is like
the time when the nightingale is absent
from our twilight world,
would you hear it as a silence? Nothing?

No love?
Or as anticipation
of that rich current of music,
which fills heart,
soul,
body,
mind?

And, if I said my love for
you is like the hare’s breath,
would you feel it to be transient?
So slight a thing?

Or would you see it as life-giving?
Wild?

A thing that fills the blood, and
sets the hare running?

Soul meets soul on a lover's lips
that kiss
the one
the only kiss
I lost my soul inside of you
and now I grope
in darkened depths alone
a well engulfed my thirsty plea
a storm a washed my identity
a kiss
the kiss
the only kiss
I lost my soul inside of you
return my being
my calm
my life
return my time
my sleep my dreams
my heart my life
return my kiss so I can find
the pathway down your soul to mine
I did not know,
soul meets soul on a lover's lips

Qualche volta, al tramonto, mi prende la malinconia. E poi, all'improvviso, arriva questo vento fresco e se la porta lontano. E' un vento strano, che non ho mai sentito da nessun'altra parte. E' un vento leggero...e mi vuole bene.

Sometimes, at sunset, I feel a wave of melancholy. And then, suddenly, a brisk wind picks up and carries it far away. It's a strange wind that I've never ever felt anywhere else. It's a light breeze...that cradles me.