Autroretrato Con Una Pena

Este pobre David que nada pide
sino un poco de paz para vivir
una piedra pequeña en que apoyar
la cabeza cansada de palabras
y un centavo de sueño que permita
creer que todavía hay gente buena
este pobre David que nada pide...

David Ledesma Vásquez

Nocturne

Ruislinnun laulu korvissani,
tähkäpäiden päällä täysi kuu;
kesä-yön on onni omanani,
kaskisavuun laaksot verhouu.
En ma iloitse, en sure, huokaa;
mutta metsän tummuus mulle tuokaa,
puunto pilven, johon päivä hukkuu,
siinto vaaran tuulisen, mi nukkuu,
tuoksut vanamon ja varjot veen;
niistä sydämeni laulun teen.

Sulle laulan neiti, kesäheinä,
sydämeni suuri hiljaisuus,
uskontoni, soipa säveleinä,
tammenlehvä-seppel vehryt, uus.
En ma enää aja virvatulta,
onpa kädessäni onnen kulta;
pienentyy mun ympär’ elon piiri;
aika seisoo, nukkuu tuuliviiri;
edessäni hämäräinen tie
tuntemattomahan tupaan vie.

Eino Leino

Nocturne

Hark! My ears are catching corncrake’s clicking,
Silver moonlight shines on cobhead corn;
Summer evening’s blessing me, enriching,
Valley’s wreaths of smoky slash and burn.
Neither joying I, nor grieve I, mournful;
But for forest’s darkness am I yearnful,
Rose-gilt clouds the day’s protracted ending,
Windy sleeping hill o’er all extending,
Fragrant twinflower, shortening, lingering shade;
These the things from which my heart-song’s made.

Lady June-July, for you I’m singing,
Great the silence of my ardent heart,
Merry music make, for faith is mounting,
Verdant wreath of oak eternal start.
Foolish errands now I’ll make no longer,
Fortune blessed hands will grasp the stronger;
Rippled pool of circles now decreasing;
Time has ceased and weathervane is sleeping;
Stretches road at twilit end of day,
Bound for home unknown, I take its way.

Eino Leino

Translation by Rupert Moreton

The Holy War

I am going to write a poem about war. Perhaps it will not be a real poem, but it will be about a real war.

It will not be a real poem, because if the real poet were here and if the news spread through the crowd that he was going to speak—then a great silence would fall; at the first glimpse, a heavy silence would swell up, a silence big with a thousand thunderbolts.

The poet would be visible; we would see him; seeing him, he would see us; and we would fade away into our own poor shadows, we would resent his being so real, we sickly ones, we troubled ones, we uneasy ones.

He would be here, full to bursting with the thousand thunderbolts of the multitude of enemies he contains—for he contains them, and satisfies them when he wishes—incandescent with pain and holy anger, yet as still as a man lighting a fuse, in the great silence he would open a little tap, the very small tap of the mill of words, and let flow a poem, such a poem that it would turn you green.

What I am going to make won’t be a real, poetic, poet’s poem for if the word “war” were used in a real poem—then war, the real war that the real poet speaks about, war without mercy, war without truce would break out for good in our inmost hearts.

For in a real poem words bear their own facts.

But neither will this be a philosophical discourse. For to be a philosopher, to love the truth more than oneself, one must have died to self-deception, one must have killed the treacherous smugness of dream and cozy fantasy. And that is the aim and the end of the war; and the war has hardly begun, there are still traitors to unmask.

Nor will it be a work of learning. For to be learned, to see and love things as they are, one must be oneself, and love to see oneself as one is. One must have broken the deceiving mirrors, one must have slain with a pitiless look the insinuating phantoms. And that is the aim and the end of the war, and the war has hardly begun; there are still masks to tear off.

Nor will it be an eager song. For enthusiasm is stable when the god stands up, when the enemies are no more than formless forces, when the clangor of war rings out deafeningly; and the war has hardly begun, we haven’t yet thrown our bedding into the fire.

Nor will it be a magical invocation, for the magician prays to his god, “Do what I want,” and he refuses to make war on his worst enemy, if the enemy pleases him; nor will it be a believer’s prayer either, for at his best the believer prays “Do what you want,” and for that he must put iron and fire into the entrails of his dearest enemy—which is the act of war, and the war has hardly begun.

This will be something of all that, some hope and effort towards all that, and it will also be something of a call to arms. A call that the play of echoes can send back to me, and that perhaps others will hear.

You can guess now of what kind of war I wish to speak.

Of other wars—of those one undergoes—I shall not speak. If I were to speak of them, it would be ordinary literature, a makeshift, a substitute, an excuse. Just as it has happened that I have used the word “terrible” when I didn’t have gooseflesh. Just as I’ve used the expression “dying of hunger” when I hadn’t reached the point of stealing from the food-stands. Just as I’ve spoken of madness before having tried to consider infinity through a keyhole. As I’ve spoken of death before my tongue has known the salt taste of the irreparable. As certain people speak of purity, who have always considered themselves superior to the domestic pig. As some speak of liberty, who adore and polish their chains; as some speak of love, who love nothing but their own shadows; or of sacrifice, who wouldn’t for all the world cut off their littlest finger. Or of knowledge, who disguise themselves from their own eyes. Just as it is our great infirmity to talk in order to see nothing.

This would be a feeble substitute, like the old and sick speaking with relish of blows given and received by the young and strong.

Have I then the right to speak of this other war—the one which is not just undergone—when it has perhaps not yet irremediably taken fire in me? When I am still engaged only in skirmishes? Certainly, I rarely have the right. But “rarely the right” also means “sometimes the duty”—and above all, “the need,” for I will never have too many allies.

I shall try to speak then of the holy war.

May it break out and continue without truce! Now and again it takes fire, but never for long. At the first small hint of victory, I flatter myself that I’ve won, and I play the part of the generous victor and come to terms with the enemy. There are traitors in the house, but they have the look of friends and it would be so unpleasant to unmask them! They have their place in the chimney corner, their armchairs and their slippers; they come in when I’m drowsy, offering me a compliment, or a funny or exciting story, or flowers and goodies—sometimes a fine hat with feathers. They speak in the first person, and it’s my voice I think I’m hearing, my voice in which I’m speaking: “I am … , I know … , I wish …” But it’s all lies! Lies grafted on my flesh, abscesses screaming at me: “Don’t slaughter us, we’re of the same blood!”—pustules whining: “We are your greatest treasure, your only good feature; go on feeding us, it doesn’t cost all that much!”

And there are so many of them; and they are charming, they are pathetic, they are arrogant, they practice blackmail, they band together … but they are barbarians who respect nothing—nothing that is true, I mean, because they cringe in front of everything else and are tied in knots with respect. It’s thanks to their ideas that I wear my mask; they take possession of everything, including the keys to the costume wardrobe. They tell me: “We’ll dress you; how could you ever present yourself properly in the great world without us?” But oh! It would be better to go naked as a grub!

The only weapon I have against these armies is a very tiny sword, so little you can hardly see it with the naked eye; though, true enough, it is sharp as a razor and quite deadly. But it is really so small that I lose it from one minute to the next. I never know where I stuck it last; and when I find it again, it seems too heavy to carry and too clumsy to wield—my deadly little sword.

Myself, I only know how to say a very few words, and they are more like squeaks; while they even know how to write. There’s always one of them in my mouth, lying in wait for my words when I want to say something. He listens and keeps everything for himself, and speaks in my place using my words but in his own filthy accent. And it’s thanks to him if anyone pays attention to me or thinks I’m intelligent. (But the ones who know aren’t fooled; if only I could listen to the ones who know!)

These phantoms rob me of everything. And having done so, it’s easy for them to make me feel sorry for them: “We protect you, we express you, we make the most of you, and you want to murder us! But you are just destroying yourself when you scold us, when you hit us cruelly on our sensitive noses—us, your good friends.”

And an unclean pity with its tepid breath comes to weaken me. Light be against you, phantoms! If I turn on the lamp, you stop talking. When I open an eye, you disappear—because you are carved out of the void, painted grimaces of emptiness. Against you, war to the finish—without pity, without tolerance. There is only one right: the right to be more.

But now it’s a different song. They have a feeling that they have been spotted; so they pretend to be conciliatory. “Of course, you’re the master. But what’s a master without servants? Keep us on in our lowly places; we promise to help you. Look here, for instance: suppose you want to write a poem. How could you do it without us?”

Yes, you rebels—some day I’ll put you in your place. I’ll make you bow under my yoke, I’ll feed you hay and groom you every morning. But as long as you suck my blood and steal my words, it would be better by far never to write a poem!

A pretty kind of peace I’m offered: to close my eyes so as not to witness the crime, to run in circles from morning till night so as not to see death’s always-open jaws; to consider myself victorious before even starting to struggle. A liar’s peace! To settle down cozily with my cowardices, since everybody else does. Peace of the defeated! A little filth, a little drunkenness, a little blasphemy for a joke, a little masquerade made a virtue of, a little laziness and fantasy—even a lot, if one is gifted for it—a little of all that, surrounded by a whole confectioner’s-shopful of beautiful words; that’s the peace that is suggested. A traitor’s peace! And to safeguard this shameful peace, one would do anything, one would make war on one’s fellows; for there is an old, tried and true formula for preserving one’s peace with oneself, which is always to accuse someone else. The peace of betrayal!

You know by now that I wish to speak of holy warfare.

He who has declared this war in himself is at peace with his fellows, and although his whole being is the field of the most violent battle, in his very innermost depths there reigns a peace that is more active than any war. And the more strongly this peace reigns in his innermost depths, in that central silence and solitude, the more violently rages the war against the turmoil of lies and numberless illusions.

In that vast silence obscured by battle-cries, hidden from the outside by the fleeing mirage of time, the eternal conqueror listens to the voices of other silences. Alone, having overcome the illusion of not being alone, he is no longer the only one to be alone. But I am separated from him by these ghost-armies which I have to annihilate. Oh, to be able one day to take my place in that citadel! On its ramparts, let me be torn limb from limb rather than allow the tumult to enter the royal chamber!

“But am I to kill?” asked Arjuna the warrior. “Am I to pay tribute to Caesar?” asks another. Kill, he is answered, if you are a killer. You have no choice. But if your hands are red with the blood of your enemies, see to it that not a drop splatter the royal chamber, where the motionless conqueror waits. Pay, he is answered, but see to it that Caesar gets not a single glimpse of the royal treasure.

And I, who have no other weapon, no other coin, in Caesar’s world, than words—am I to speak?

I shall speak to call myself to the holy war. I shall speak to denounce the traitors whom I nourished. I shall speak so that my words may shame my actions, until the day comes when a peace armored in thunder reigns in the chamber of the eternal conqueror.

And because I have used the word war, and because this word war is no longer, today, simply a sound that educated people make with their mouths, but now has become a serious word heavy with meaning, it will be seen that I am speaking seriously and that these are not empty sounds that I am making with my mouth.

René Daumal

Translated by Dorothea M. Dooling

Casa Cautiva

Esta es la casa; es nuestra.

Esta es su música; las exigencias todas
de la vida pasaron por sus habitaciones, por el ascua
quemante de sus fronteras; la locura de quienes emprendieron
una empresa más ancha que sus fuerzas, el sueño
que los fue desgarrando, esa sal escogida
que salpicó las llagas de su vasto martirio.

Es nuestra. Aquí resuenan
músicas melancólicas, instrumentos que exaltan
querencias y alegrías. Le pertenecen la quietud antigua
y los hechos sangrientos. Sus ríos, los espejos, recogieron despojos
de injuria y desventura (por eso es esta música); obsedieron
a sus hijos colores de aturdidos relámpagos, sus manos
apresaron los frutos de una infausta cosecha.
Su música es así. Descansa ahora
en un boreal tembladeral de pájaros, de plumas
amarillas, de crucifijos deslavados, rotos. Y es hora
de preguntarse ¿qué trajimos
para ungirla a un estado de habitación del hombre;
se habrá sentido, como cal viva en los ojos, la tribulación
de su destino? ¿Qué tembloroso cántaro
amasamos, qué súplica o trastorno,
qué empeño y asechanza para evitar la herida
de su piel, esa absorta mirada de sus ojos terribles
como una acusación? ¿Habremos, pues, cumplido
con el deber que hiciese merecer habitarla?

Es nuestra. Esta es su música. ¿Qué rencores oscuros
le habrán tejido esa circunferencia,
el halo que empurpura sus techumbres? ¿La enemistad
como un osario vano entre sus hijos? ¿El desconsuelo
de las cruces plantadas en su sueño y la obliga
a prosternarse a solas junto a su sombra rota,
a la intemperie, al umbral del orgullo que vela su infortunio?

A saco habrán entrado
en ella los Impuros, los cómplices
del ritual del crimen; habrán entrado a saco
con miserables máscaras que engendra la codicia;
habrán marcado un día trágico por sus muros.
trágico de fatalidad, espúreo
como el inicuo cuervo sobre el árbol desierto
en cuya raíz de hueso reposan los desnudos.
Su música es así, una cifra
de dulce acento humano, un anuncio
previo de acusación anudado a la rueda del destino
y al párpado de los muertos, melodía incesante en el desgaste
del desierto cubil, sonido desgajado
de un instrumento oscuro con imagen de reja y cautiverio.

Todo saldrá de aquí, de su piedra
y su polvo, de su migaja el pan, de su venero
verde la cosecha, de las estancias tristes la temblorosa noche
de la revelación y los rebeldes;
de aquí la sangre, el fuego, de los cuencos vacíos la mirada
final y salvadora, como un amor que brota
de madrigueras hondas de escarnio y menosprecio.

No habrá ya que olvidar decir su nombre
de música y quejumbre, ese nombre de selvas que prohijó
nacimientos,
muertes, inmolaciones, sea amarga sobre los labios,
del hombre; nombrarla en trance
marcarla a hierro lento en nuestros huesos;
a cada instante repetir su nombre (como triunfo o condena)
mentar esas señales remontadas a tiempos
de arcilla fatigada, de plumajes y tribus destruidas,
nombrarla siempre,
morder su nombre de sol inevitable
(como virtud o pecado), llevar su nombre en la carne
como esta lleva su corrupción, seguir nombrándola
y desvestirla toda con el rebozo intacto
de esa música dulce, inmemorial, desamparada música de un
anhelo insaciable.

Elvio Romero

La Luna Y El Toro

La luna se está peinando
en los espejos del río,
y un toro la está mirando
entre la jara escondío.

Cuando llega la alegre mañana
y la luna se escapa del río
el torito se mete en el agua
envistiendo, al ver que se ha ido.

Y ese toro enamorado de la luna
que abandona por la noche la maná'
es pinta'o de amapola y aceituna
y le puso Campanero el mayoral.

Los Romeros de los montes
le besan la frente,
las estrellas de los cielos
le bañan de plata.

Y el torito que es bravío,
de casta valiente
abanicos de colores
parecen sus patas.

La luna viene esta noche
con una bata de cola
y un toro la está mirando
entre la jara y la sombra.

Y en la cara del agua del río
donde duerme la luna lunera
el torito celoso perdío
la vigila como un centinela.

Y ese toro enamorado de la luna
que abandona por la noche la maná
es pintao de amapola y aceituna
y le puso Campanero el mayoral.

Los Romeros de los montes
le besan la frente,
las estrellas de los cielos
le bañan de plata.

Y el torito que es bravío,
de casta valiente
y el rocío de las flores
le lavan la cara.

El rocío de las flores
le lavan la cara

Carlos Castellano Gómez

Alegres Eramos...

Usted sabe, señor,
qué alegría colgaba en la floresta;
qué alegría severa
como raigambre sudorosa;
cómo el alegre polvo veraniego
fulguraba en su lámina esplendente,
cómo, ¡qué alegremente andábamos!

¡Qué alegremente andábamos!

Usted sabe, señor,
usted ha visto cómo
la lluvia torrencial sempiterna caía
sobre un textil aroma de bejucos salvajes
y cómo iba dejando con sus pétalos húmedos
su flora resbalosa,
su acuosa florería.

Usted sabe, señor,
cómo los sementales retozaban
hartos de florecer, jubilosos de hartazgo,
con qué poder la noche deponía
su amargura en la altura del rocío
tal como deponía la desdicha
su arma en las arboledas.

Usted sabe qué alegre
aflicción de racimos por las ramas
en frutal arco iris vespertino;
cómo alegres luciérnagas subían
a encender las estrellas,
a conducir azahares que estallaban
como emoción nupcial o lumbraradas.

Usted sabe, señor,
que antes de que aquí se enseñoreara
la pobreza, frunciendo hasta las hojas,
desesperando el aire,
bien sabe, bien conoce
que cualquier miserable aquí podía
fortificar un canto en su garganta,
en su pecho opulento.

(¡Cómo podías reír, muchacha mía!
Juvenil, ¡cómo izabas
una sonrisa fértil como un grano,
cómo te coronaban los jazmines
y cómo yo apuraba
mi vaso de fervor! ¡Qué alegres éramos!)

Antes, antes de la amargura,
antes de que sorbiéramos
un caudaloso cáliz de indigencias boreales,
antes de que amarraran los perfumes,
que en su reverso el sol guardase el hambre,
¡qué alegres caminábamos!

Antes,
antes de que el aura ofendieran,
de arrancar la raíz sangrándole los bulbos,
antes del mayoral, del tiro, antes del látigo,
qué alegría, señor,
¡qué alegremente andábamos!

Elvio Romero

Brise Marine

La chair est triste, hélas ! et j’ai lu tous les livres.
Fuir ! là-bas fuir ! Je sens que des oiseaux sont ivres
D’être parmi l’écume inconnue et les cieux!
Rien, ni les vieux jardins reflétés par les yeux
Ne retiendra ce cœur qui dans la mer se trempe
Ô nuits ! ni la clarté déserte de ma lampe
Sur le vide papier que la blancheur défend
Et ni la jeune femme allaitant son enfant.
Je partirai ! Steamer balançant ta mâture,
Lève l’ancre pour une exotique nature!
Un Ennui, désolé par les cruels espoirs,
Croit encore à l’adieu suprême des mouchoirs!
Et, peut-être, les mâts, invitant les orages
Sont-ils de ceux qu’un vent penche sur les naufrages
Perdus, sans mâts, sans mâts, ni fertiles îlots…
Mais, ô mon cœur, entends le chant des matelots!

Stéphan Mallarmé

Cahier D'un Retour Au Pays Natal

Cahier D'un Retour Au Pays Natal

Aimé Césaire

El Herido

Para el muro de un hospital de sangre.


I


Por los campos luchados se extienden los heridos.
Y de aquella extensión de cuerpos luchadores
salta un trigal de chorros calientes, extendidos
en roncos surtidores.

La sangre llueve siempre boca arriba, hacia el cielo.
Y las heridas suenan, igual que caracolas
cuando hay en las heridas celeridad de vuelo,
esencia de las olas.

La sangre huele a mar, sabe a mar y a bodega.
La bodega del mar, del vino bravo, estalla
allí donde el herido palpitante se anega,
y florece, y se halla.

Herido estoy, miradme: necesito más vidas.
La que contengo es poca para el gran cometido
de sangre que quisiera perder por las heridas
Decid quién no fue herido.

Mi vida es una herida de juventud dichosa.
¡Ay de quien no esté herido, de quien jamás se siente
herido por la vida, ni en la vida reposa
herido alegremente!

Si hasta a los hospitales se va con alegría,
se convierten en huertos de heridas entreabiertas,
de adelfos florecidos ante la cirugía.
de ensangrentadas puertas.



II



Para la libertad sangro, lucho, pervivo.
Para la libertad, mis ojos y mis manos,
como un árbol carnal, generoso y cautivo,
doy a los cirujanos.

Para la libertad siento más corazones
que arenas en mi pecho: dan espumas mis venas,
y entro en los hospitales, y entro en los algodones
como en las azucenas.

Para la libertad me desprendo a balazos
de los que han revolcado su estatua por el lodo.
Y me desprendo a golpes de mis pies, de mis brazos,
de mi casa, de todo.

Porque donde unas cuencas vacías amanezcan,
ella pondrá dos piedras de futura mirada
y hará que nuevos brazos y nuevas piernas crezcan
en la carne talada.

Retoñarán aladas de savia sin otoño
reliquias de mi cuerpo que pierdo en cada herida.
Porque soy como el árbol talado, que retoño:
porque aún tengo la vida.

Campo de trigo con cuervos, Vincent Van Gogh

Miguel Hernández

Ahora Que Ya No Soy Más Joven

Ahora que ya remonto la mitad del camino de mi vida,
yo que siempre me apené de las gentes mayores,
yo, que soy eterna pues he muerto cien veces, de tedio, de agonía,
y que alargo mis brazos al sol en las mañanas y me arrullo
en las noches y me canto canciones para espantar el miedo,
¿qué haré con esta sombra que comienza a vestirme
y a despojarme sin remordimientos?
¿Qué haré con el confuso y turbio río que no encuentra su mar,
con tanto día y tanto aniversario, con tanta juventud a las espaldas,
si aún no he nacido, si aún hoy me cabe
un mundo entero en el costado izquierdo?
¿Qué hacer ahora que ya no soy más joven
si todavía no te he conocido?

Piedad Bonnett

Canto do Mundo

Pr'esse canto do mundo
De onde é que ele virá
Do meu sonho profundo
Ou do fundo do mar

Com que voz cantará
Com que luz brilhará
Há de vir seja como for

Pr'esse canto do mundo
De onde virá o amor?

Nessa vida vazia
Por que tarda meu bem?
Uma imensa alegria
Que se guarda pra quem?

Seja um anjo do céu
Seja um monstro do mar
Venha num disco voador
Mas que saiba que é meu
No segundo que olhar
Pelo encanto maior

Pr'esse canto do mundo
Quando virá o amor?

O meu amor...
O meu amor...

Caetano Veloso

Protesto Do Olodum

Força e pudor
Liberdade ao povo do Pelô
Mãe que é mãe no parto sente dor
E lá vou eu

Declara a nação,
Pelourinho contra a prostituição
Faz protesto, manifestação
E lá vou eu

Aqui se expandiu
E o terror já domina o brasil
Faz denúncia olodum Pelourinho
E lá vou eu

Brasil liderança
Força e elite da poluição
Em destaque o terror, Cubatão
E lá vou eu

Io io io io io
La la la la la la la
Io io io io io
La la la la la la la
E lá vou eu

Brasil nordestópia
Na bahia existe etiópia
Pro nordeste o país vira as costas
E lá vou eu

Nós somos capazes
Pelourinho a verdade nos trás
Monumento caboclo da paz
E lá vou eu

Io io io io io
La la la la la la la
Io io io io io
La la la la la la la
E lá vou eu

Desmound tutu
Contra o apartaid lá na África do Sul
Vem saudando o Nelson Mandela
O olodum

Io io io io io
La la la la la la la
Io io io io io
La la la la la la la
E lá vou eu

Moçambique, Moçambique, Moçambique
Moçambique, Moçambique, Moçambique

Gilson Menezes dos Santos Dorea (Tatau)

Balada Del Disparatorio Báquico, Impregnada De Múltiples Romanticismos

Dícela "El Ebrio"

Aquesto dixo “El Ebrio”, una vegada.
Aquesto dixo con su voz cansada.
Aquesto dixo por la madrugada.

Yo dello non sé nada.

Bebamos en las cráteras de oro
que laboró el cincel benvenutino,
champagne, bulbente y bullicioso vino .

Bebamos en las ánforas de barro
doria hidromiel; en el panzudo jarro
blonda cerveza, y en las cristalinas
frágiles copas el anís sonoro
así como las finas
mixturas sibilinas.

"Porque es dulce olvidar".

Bebamos en las cráteras de oro
el líquido tesoro
que enloquece las mentes
y elide los deseos,
y que sume los sueños impotentes
en helados Leteos!

Porque es dulce olvidar. ¿Algo esculpido
quedar merece en el cerebro? Nada!
Porque es dulce olvidar...

El viento azota
la cima de los árboles, tedioso;
vacila el corazón ante la rota!
El espíritu vago!
¡La voluntad errátil
es un tortuoso Yago!
y el soñar aterido...:
¡el soñar aterido y no vibrátil
ni altanero!... y nostálgico, anheloso
de una distinta vida...

Los jardines románticos
horros están de idilios.
Y son hueros los cánticos
jocundos de Himeneo!

Dormita ya el Deseo!
Ya dormita el Amor!
Y yerra -enloquecida-
por sus ludies exilios
de Dolor,
l’alma pura de Ofelia,
mientras Hamlet, moroso y taciturno
sepultóse en sí mismo!”

Ya no existe
la verdad, si ha existido... Ya no es nada
la belleza, y lo es todo! y la tristeza
¡cómo es asaz vulgar y adocenada!

Yo buceo un abismo
y el tal abismo es hueco!
Todo es superficial, mentido y triste.
Todo: el Amor y la Naturaleza,
el Mar, las Nubes, la ideal Belleza:
sólo restan cinismo,
rutina, y el enteco
sentido de lo práctico y la cómica
metafísica vómica!

Es preciso beber la sangre cálida
de los magos elixires!
Complicados brebajes, quinta-esencia,
sudor de las retortas y alambiques;
todos los filtros químicos y alquímicos
el díctamo, el nepentes,
súmanme en la demencia!

En el absintio quiero que se esconda
-tras de sus de sirena glaucos ojos-
mi espíritu arbitrario,
mi corazón, y toda la amargura
de abolidos despojos!

Es preciso beber la sangre cálida,
sangre morena
o sangre blonda!
En el absintio quiero que se esconda
-tras de sus glaucos ojos de sirena–
mi corazón, y toda la amargura!

"La azul locura pálida,
soberana locura,
se asile en mi cerebro solitario!"

Bebamos en las cráteras de oro
todo el licor que corre por la vena
de la pródiga uva;
y hagamos la serena
-la serena o la loca-
vida del que en sí propio no se toca
y que en nada se halla...

-Búdico ser en éxtasis,
Jaiyám bajo los astros,
Edgar en la taberna,
Diógenes en su cuba...
Desdeñosos e impávidos,
sonrientes,
mirando la batalla
sempiterna, mirando la batalla
de apetitos, la gresca y el estridir de dientes
y el vulgar forcejeo
para ascender, para medrar, para vivir...

"Nosotros -sí, nosotros-
olímpicos yazgamos sobre el trípode sacro:
claudicantes e irónicos,
sonrientes espectadores del simulacro,
sin recordar, sin añorar,
sin anhelar,
¡sin un solo deseo!"

Brúña el trágico enteco
con sus hórridas lumbres
incendiarias;
dóre el amanecer con vagas lumbres
y medias-tintas de atediada suavidad;
o aljofáre la luna
del bebedor la cabellera bruna
o la blonda o endrina cabellera
nimbada de doliente claridad,
y bebamos el vino,
y bebamos el vino,
y bebamos el vino!

Aquesto dixo el Ebrio una vegada.
Aquesto dixo con su voz cansada.
Aquesto dixo por la madrugada.

Yo dello non me curo. Yo dello non sé nada

León de Greiff

The Giving Tree

Once there was a tree....
and she loved a little boy.
And everyday the boy would come
and he would gather her leaves
and make them into crowns
and play king of the forest.
He would climb up her trunk
and swing from her branches
and eat apples.
And they would play hide-and-go-seek.
And when he was tired,
he would sleep in her shade.
And the boy loved the tree....
very much.
And the tree was happy.
But time went by.
And the boy grew older.
And the tree was often alone.
Then one day the boy came to the tree
and the tree said, 'Come, Boy, come and
climb up my trunk and swing from my
branches and eat apples and play in my
shade and be happy.'
'I am too big to climb and play' said
the boy.
'I want to buy things and have fun.
I want some money?'
'I'm sorry,' said the tree, 'but I
have no money.
I have only leaves and apples.
Take my apples, Boy, and sell them in
the city. Then you will have money and
you will be happy.'
And so the boy climbed up the
tree and gathered her apples
and carried them away.
And the tree was happy.
But the boy stayed away for a long time....
and the tree was sad.
And then one day the boy came back
and the tree shook with joy
and she said, 'Come, Boy, climb up my trunk
and swing from my branches and be happy.'
'I am too busy to climb trees,' said the boy.
'I want a house to keep me warm,' he said.
'I want a wife and I want children,
and so I need a house.
Can you give me a house?'
' I have no house,' said the tree.
'The forest is my house,
but you may cut off
my branches and build a
house. Then you will be happy.'

And so the boy cut off her branches
and carried them away
to build his house.
And the tree was happy.
But the boy stayed away for a long time.
And when he came back,
the tree was so happy
she could hardly speak.
'Come, Boy,' she whispered,
'come and play.'
'I am too old and sad to play,'
said the boy.
'I want a boat that will
take me far away from here.
Can you give me a boat?'
'Cut down my trunk
and make a boat,' said the tree.
'Then you can sail away...
and be happy.'
And so the boy cut down her trunk
and made a boat and sailed away.
And the tree was happy
... but not really.

And after a long time
the boy came back again.
'I am sorry, Boy,'
said the tree,' but I have nothing
left to give you -
My apples are gone.'
'My teeth are too weak
for apples,' said the boy.
'My branches are gone,'
said the tree. ' You
cannot swing on them - '
'I am too old to swing
on branches,' said the boy.
'My trunk is gone, ' said the tree.
'You cannot climb - '
'I am too tired to climb' said the boy.
'I am sorry,' sighed the tree.
'I wish that I could give you something....
but I have nothing left.
I am just an old stump.
I am sorry....'
'I don't need very much now,' said the boy.
'just a quiet place to sit and rest.
I am very tired.'
'Well,' said the tree, straightening
herself up as much as she could,
'well, an old stump is good for sitting and resting
Come, Boy, sit down. Sit down and rest.'
And the boy did.
And the tree was happy. 

Shel Silverstein