Explore "Time That Wasn't Lost" by Pablo Neruda on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
One doesn't count illusions nor bitter realizations, no measure exists to count what couldn't happen for us, what circled like a bumblebee, without our not noticing what we were losing.
To lose until we lose our life is to live our life and our death, and nothing that passes on exists that doesn't give constant proof of the continuous emptiness of all, the silence into which everything falls and, finally, we fall.
O! what came so close that we were never able to know.
O! what was never able to be that maybe could have been.
So many wings flew around the mountains of sorrow and so many wheels beat the highway of our destiny, we had nothing left to lose.
And our weeping ended.