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Всем привет!
Наверное, вы все читали и знаете о том, что Вигго - удивительно талантливый человек. Он пишет стихи, рисует прекрасные картины, сочиняет музыку, поёт, фотографирует... Сегодня я хочу показать вам стихи, написанные рукой этого замечательного человека.
Специально выкладываю их в оригинале, чтобы вы почувствовали и прониклись ими. Кстати, наш Вигго в совершенстве владеет и испанским! Так что тут есть стих на этом языке!
Прошу:

Matinee

After years of merging
and allowing yourself
to be assimilated,
your hair and clothes
have turned brown.
Then, one afternoon
you exit a theatre
after taking in
the restored version
of The Hero Returns
and find yourself
wanting to be treated
special.

Just Coffee

He wanted bigger love,
had to have it like he
had to dream himself
to sleep. recrossed
his legs and waited
for her tears. when
they came, he held
her hand, pretended
to be interested in
someone walking by
their table.

Ten Last Night

I pass a pile of broken chairs
on our street corner
and feel you
drying on me.
I taste the blood
that shimmered
on your lips.
Lingering, like guilt does.

*** (стих на испанском+английский перевод)

TRAGUE EL BAGRE (I swallowed the reel)
Y EL ANZUELO (and the rod)
Y LA FE QUE (and the faith that)
TAN DULCE TENIA (so sweetly I had)
LA TARDE DEL DIA (the afternoon of the day)
QUE TE CONOCI. (that I met you)

ME VI EN TUS OJOS (I saw myself in your eyes)
Y EN TUS BRAZOS; (and in your arms)
UNA VIDA ENTERA (and an entire lifetime)
EN TU BOCA VIVI (in your lips I lived)
LA TARDE DEL DIA (the afternoon of the day)
QUE TE CONOCI. (that I met you)

STONES

Met by a lake near the sun
Your mouth and eyes, arms
And legs, melted as though
We'd known each other well
And needed only rekindle
Warmth of the familiar.
As if patience were rewarded
And now we'd share everything.
Cuttings.
The afterthought of chimes
Filters in from next-door.
I am under the echo, not
Listening so much as noticing
It from time to time as
I look over the results
Of my landscaping and
Weeding from a white
Wicker chair.
An errant vine has sprouted
Two blue flowers
Where it reaches
Roots of the lemon tree.
They are beautiful;
I am suspicious.
Are they a diversion,
An entreaty to keep me
From cutting back the vine?
I'll keep the flowers,
Put them in a saucer
By your bed.

by Elijah_Wood