A Dream

Light, darkness

Goddess Persephone  

Light of the enlightened

Imagen extraida de este sitio

About Cities, Deserts and the Ocean

Misty days ahead, no shadows recognize my dark figure. The nostalgia sunshine is still bright in my retina, burning holes in the memento. Assist me in blowing out the fog surrounding the tales of past mirth while lining up new buildings that will eventually get lost in this dampness of me. The desert is not big enough to hold up so much, nor the ocean deep enough to make forgiveness an option to sail in the winds of time towards a new shore, where arid sand shall be waiting for my arrival. The masquerade is getting old, the party drawing to an end; will our faces be as bright as our trivial would-be-smiles? The clock is innocent for the passing time, yet it is a blackberry attaching sense of past to the ankle of its bearers. Tick another second for me you damn clock. I would hope for my recollections to be as effective as the sands of the desert, that forget after each breeze, but remembrance is strong in me, building a massive metropolis out of meaningless hours. 

Rojo y Negro

La danza entre luz y sombra deja vestigios sobre mi cuerpo del gran desgarro. No aparece más, se fué, le olvidé. Con sal y agua curo heridas que abiertas supuran olvido, abandono, traición. No soy más lo que fuí; eso se fue con el agua que me dejo limpiar el recuerdo.

Sueño I

Nadando entre gigantes,
bastas mares llenas de flechas carmín y orcas esbeltas que acompañan a quienes allí nadan. El buscar, en el basto camino de ballenas se hace más sencillo cuando la música guía tus pasos hacia el final. 

Pensamientos oscuros en una soleada tarde de verano

Fragmentos e imágenes que ilustran el día:

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

(Hemos permanecido en las cámaras marinas

por mujeres-marinas envueltas de algas rojas y marrones

hasta que la voz humana nos despierta, y nos ahogamos)

Aubade

That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade

Created to pretend we never die

(Ese vasto y apolillado brocado musical

creado para pretender que nunca morimos)

The Second Coming

... twenty centuries of stony sleep

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle

(... Veinte siglos de un pétreo sueño

fueron contrariados hasta la pesadilla por el mecer de una cuna)

Que todos ustedes tengan un día hermoso! 

Empty Buildings

Is there still anywhere a place
in which a palace has any use?
The splendid fortifications of yesterday
have no longer anima or significance.
There are not any fortresses
whose foundations aren’t corrupted.
Our past shelters are dumb and numb,
though their eye still speak volumes
we have lost – we were amputated –
the ability to listen to their eyes.

Void, emptiness, vacuum in their carcasses
is all we can find? It seems no building can
empower us to be as we used to be.
They are unable; they are handicaps,
whose only hope lies in
that those who once crowded them
can find a cure to dumbness.

These creatures still hope that
the great creation reveals to them.
But they do not but grope
in the purple glade of stars
to listen to the word of the wise.
Wise who, by its own wisdom,
know better than to be bearer of news
to that tart race of social animals who
emptied society of its reason of being.

Those animals are done for
because when the sun walks into
they become as blind as their
former fortifications are speechless.
No way out can they find. Hopeless,
meaningless if they cannot appreciate
the magnificence of the edifices.

Locked into their basements,
left aside as a forgotten toy
they hope some wise child comes,
and by ploy of the universe’s will,
the artificer plays with us, and
takes us to the luminosity they once shut
away of those great castles of meaning.