Alejandro, my beloved Burmese kitten, a year old this month.. is dead. Drinks in memorium will commence on Saturday evening at 7:30pm in my courtyard. He was much loved. He knew every neighbor for a kilometer around- had slept with most of them, played with their grandkids, used their cat doors and ate their food.

His death was tragic. Hit by a car, he left the road and crawled up the hill of my cross the street neighbors and finally died in their hedge. He was discovered several days after the fact, with the help of concerned neighbors who joined in my search. We believe this happened on Saturday morning, 6 days ago.

Of comfort: his one year was probably the best year a cat could dream. He loved and was loved. If it's true that "The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return." then he had most of us beaten in one year.

If Mark gets on the ball, soon there will be a video link of Alejandro (Alex) at play.

Puedo escribir los versos mas tristes esta noche.

Puedo escribir los versos mas tristes esta noche.

Escribir, por ejemplo: "La noche esta estrellada,
y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos".

El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.

Puedo escribir los versos mas tristes esta noche.
Yo la quise, y a veces ella tambien me quiso.

En las noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos.
La bese tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.

Ella me quiso, a veces yo tambien la queria.
Como no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.

Puedo escribir los versos mas tristes esta noche.
Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.

Oir la noche inmensa, mas inmensa sin ella.
Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocio.

Que importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.
La noche esta estrellada y ella no esta conmigo.

Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.
Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.
Mi corazon la busca, y ella no esta conmigo.

La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos arboles.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuanto la quise.
Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oido.

De otro. Sera de otro. Como antes de mis besos.
Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.

Porque en noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos,
mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Aunque este sea el ultimo dolor que ella me causa,
y estos sean los ultimos versos que yo le escribo.

-Pablo Neruda

(translated)
Tonight I can write the saddest lines

Tonight I can write the saddest lines
Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

Tonight I can write the saddest lines
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the verses fall to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We of that time are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searches the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and forgetting so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is not content it has lost her

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.