Carta de Pedro a Leyla
Quiero escribirte un verso, pero no puedo.
Tu estás hecha de prosa.
Los versos van y vuelven, vuelan y hacen soñar;
la prosa en cambio se queda y me desvela.
Como tu, quiere ser perfecta, no da treguas y te dice todo,
y no esconde nada.
El verso es vago, extranjero a la crudeza de tus letras
a menudo demasiado francas.
Insisto, quiero escribirte un verso, al menos uno!
Regalarte matices y adornar tu mundo con epifanías literarias.
Pero no puedo, la fortaleza de tus vocales bárbaras me desorienta, y
me fait un drôle d’effet.
Ya no quiero escribirte versos, quiero mirarte y no leerte,
Ver que de verdad existes, sufrir tu sonrisa,
esconderme de tus ojos, someter a juicio tus labios.
Y poder dormir profundamente hasta
que tu prosa me despierte a tiempo.
Justo antes de escribirte un verso.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Friday, July 28, 2006
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Monday, July 24, 2006
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Friday, July 21, 2006
The Stare's Nest by My Window
The bees build in the crevices
Of loosening masonry, and there
The mother birds bring grubs and flies.
My wall is loosening; honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
We are closed in, and the key is turned
On our uncertainty; somewhere
A man is killed, or a house burned.
Yet no clear fact to be discerned:
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
A barricade of stone or of wood;
Some fourteen days of civil war:
Last night they trundled down the road
That dead young soldier in his blood:
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
We had fed the heart on fantasies,
The heart's grown brutal from the fare,
More substance in our enmities
Than in our love; O honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
W. B. Yeats
The bees build in the crevices
Of loosening masonry, and there
The mother birds bring grubs and flies.
My wall is loosening; honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
We are closed in, and the key is turned
On our uncertainty; somewhere
A man is killed, or a house burned.
Yet no clear fact to be discerned:
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
A barricade of stone or of wood;
Some fourteen days of civil war:
Last night they trundled down the road
That dead young soldier in his blood:
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
We had fed the heart on fantasies,
The heart's grown brutal from the fare,
More substance in our enmities
Than in our love; O honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
W. B. Yeats
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Friday, July 14, 2006
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Monday, July 10, 2006
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Saturday, July 08, 2006
Friday, July 07, 2006
Saturday, July 01, 2006
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