jueves, 21 de marzo de 2013
Ode To Broken Things
Things get broken
at home
like they were pushed
by an invisible, deliberate smasher.
It's not my hands or yours
It wasn't the girls
with their hard fingernails
or the motion of the planet.
It wasn't anything or anybody
It wasn't the wind
It wasn't the orange-colored noontime
Or night over the earth
It wasn't even the nose or the elbow
Or the hips getting bigger
or the ankle or the air.
The plate broke, the lamp fell
All the flower pots tumbled over
one by one. That pot
which overflowed with scarlet
in the middle of October,
it got tired from all the violets
and another empty one
rolled round and round and round
all through winter
until it was only the powder
of a flowerpot, a broken memory, shining dust. ...
And that clock whose sound was
the voice of our lives, the secret
thread of our weeks, which released
one by one, so many hours
for honey and silence
for so many births and jobs,
that clock also fell
and its delicate blue guts
vibrated among the broken glass
its wide heart
unsprung.
Life goes on grinding up
glass, wearing out clothes
making fragments
breaking down
forms
and what lasts through time
is like an island on a ship in the sea,
perishable
surrounded by dangerous fragility
by merciless waters and threats.
Let's put all our treasures together
-- the clocks, plates, cups cracked by the cold --
into a sack and carry them
to the sea
and let our possessions sink
into one alarming breaker
that sounds like a river.
May whatever breaks
be reconstructed by the sea
with the long labor of its tides.
So many useless things
which nobody broke
but which got broken anyway.
*Pablo Neruda
:)
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=D>
:D
:P
:-O
:-?
:-SS
:-f
d(
:-*
b-(
h-(
g-)
5-p
y-)
c-)
s-)
d-)
w-)
:-h
:X
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Life is not fun. Imagine if everyone in the place, it would be nice, but everything is mixed up ... I'll be where I've dreamed of one day. I believe that. I hope that nothing would stop me ...
ResponderEliminar:rolleyes: :whistle: :king: :queen: you too a nice weekend DASHA
ResponderEliminarYes!!is life is not easy, but the important, Is That You have a dream, and You working for this dream come true, no matter the end; what matters is that nothing stops you and You beleive in it.Thank you dear john for your words, I like Nice week for you“Life is an opportunity, benefit from it.Life is beauty, admire it.Life is a dream, realize it.Life is a challenge, meet it.Life is a duty, complete it.Life is a game, play it.Life is a promise, fulfill it.Life is sorrow, overcome it.Life is a song, sing it.Life is a struggle, accept it.Life is a tragedy, confront it.Life is an adventure, dare it.Life is luck, make it.Life is too precious, do not destroy it.Life is life, fight for it.” ― Mother Teresa
ResponderEliminar"This being human is a guest house. Every morning a new arrival. A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor. Welcome and entertain all! Even if they're a crowd of sorrows, who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture, still, treat each guest honorably. He may be clearing you out for some new delight. The dark thought, the shame, the malice, meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in. Be grateful for whomever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond."Jalalaluddin Muhammad Rumi
ResponderEliminarYo fui la más calladade todas las que hicieron el viaje hasta tu puerto.No me anunciaron lúbricas ceremonias sociales,ni las sordas campanas de ancestrales reflejos;mi ruta era la música salvaje de los pájarosque soltaba a los aires mi bondad en revuelo.No me cargaron buques pesados de opulencia,ni alfombras orientales apoyaron mi cuerpo;encima de los buques mi rostro aparecíasilbando en la redonda sencillez de los vientos.No pesé la armonía de ambiciones trivialesque prometía tu mano colmada de destellos:sólo pesé en el suelo de mi espíritu ágilel trágico abandono que ocultaba tu gesto.Tu dualidad perenne la marcó mi sed ávida.Te parecías al mar, resonante y discreto.Sobre ti fui pasando mis horarios perdidos.Sobre mi tú seguiste como el sol en los pétalos.Y caminé en la brisa de tu dolor caídocon la tristeza ingenua de saberme en lo cierto:tu vida era un profundo batir de inquietas fuentesen inmenso río blanco corriendo hacia el desierto.*Julia de Burgos
ResponderEliminarbeautiful and touching poems..
ResponderEliminarThank you dear Sagar
ResponderEliminar