FEDERICO GARCIA LORCA
GABRIELA MISTRAL
ALFONSINA STORNI
PABLO NERUDA
MARIO BENEDETTI
RAINER MARIA RILKE
..........
Te deseo, poetry of Federico Gracia Lorca
Only your warm heart
,
And nothing more.
My paradise, a field
Without nightingale
No liras,
With a discrete river
And a little fountain.
Without the spur of the wind
On the frond,
Not the star that wants
Be a leaf.
A huge light
That was
Firefly
Of other,
In a field of
Broken looks.
A clear rest
And there our kisses,
Sound polka dots
From the echo,
They would open very far.
And your warm heart,
Nothing else
..........
KISSES POEM OF GABRIELA MISTRAL.
pasms of terrible emotion,
your eyes filled with There are kisses that speak for themselves
the sentence of condemnatory love,
there are kisses that are given with the look
there are kisses that occur with memory.
There are silent kisses, noble kisses
there are enigmatic, sincere kisses
there are kisses that are given only souls
There are kisses forbidden, true.
There are kisses that burn and hurt,
there are kisses that snatch the senses,
there are mysterious kisses that have left
A thousand wandering and lost dreams.
There are problematic kisses that contain
a key that nobody has deciphered,
there are kisses that engender tragedy
how many roses in brooch have leafless.
There are scented kisses, warm kisses
that pulsate in intimate desires,
there are kisses that leave traces on the lips
like a field of sun between two ice.
There are kisses that look like lilies
sublime, naive and pure,
there are treacherous and cowardly kisses,
there are cursed and perjured kisses.
Judas kisses Jesus and leaves printed
in his face of God, the felony,
while the Magdalena with her kisses
piously fortifies his agony.
Since then in the kisses palpita
love, betrayal and pain,
in human weddings they seem
to the breeze that plays with the flowers.
There are kisses that produce ravings
of passionate ardent and crazy passion,
you know them well are my kisses
invented by me, for your mouth.
Kisses of flame that on printed trail
they carry the furrows of a forbidden love,
Storm kisses, wild kisses
that only our lips have tasted.
Do you remember the first ...? Indefinable;
covered your face with red blushes
and in the stears.
Do you remember that one afternoon in crazy excess
I saw you jealous imagining grievances,
I suspended you in my arms ... a kiss vibrated,
and what did you see later ...? Blood on my lips.
I taught you to kiss: cold kisses
they are of impassive rock heart,
I taught you to kiss with my kisses
invented by me, for your mouth.
..........
ADIOS POEM OF ALFONSINA STORNI
The things that die never rise,
the things that die never return.
The glasses and the remaining glass are broken
It is dust forever and forever will be!
When the buds fall from the branch
twice in a row will not bloom ...
The flowers cut by the impious wind
They run out forever, forever and ever!
The days that were, the days lost,
the inert days will not come back!
How sad the hours that were shelled
under the wing of loneliness!
How sad the shadows, the ominous shadows,
the shadows created by our evil!
Oh, things gone, things withered,
the celestial things that are like that!
Heart ... silence! ... Cover yourself with sores! ...
-from infected sores- cover yourself with evil! ...
Let everyone who arrives die by touching you,
Damn heart you worry my eagerness!
Goodbye forever my sweetnesses all!
Farewell my joy full of goodness!
Oh, the dead things, the withered things,
the celestial things that do not return anymore! ...
..........
I'M AFRAID, POEM PABLO NERUDA
I'm scared. The afternoon is gray and sadness
from heaven it opens like a mouth of the dead.
My heart has a cry for a princess
forgotten at the bottom of a desert palace.
I'm scared - and I feel so tired and small
I reflow the afternoon without meditating on it.
(In my sick head there is no dream to fit
just as in the sky there has not been a star.)
However in my eyes a question exists
and there is a scream in my mouth that my mouth does not scream.
There is no ear on earth that hears my sad complaint
abandoned in the middle of the infinite earth!
The universe dies of a calm agony
without the party of the Sun or the green twilight.
Agonizes Saturn as a grief of mine,
the Earth is a black fruit that the sky bites.
And by the vastness of emptiness they go blind
the afternoon clouds, like lost boats
to hide broken stars in their cellars.
And the death of the world falls on my life.
...........
CHOOSE MY LANDSCAPE, POEM M. BENDEDETTI.
CHOOSE MY LANDSCAPE, POEM M. BENDECETTI.
If I could choose my landscape
of memorable things, my landscape
of desolate autumn,
I would choose, I would steal this street
which is prior to me and everyone.
She returns my useless gaze,
that of just fifteen or twenty years ago
when the green house poisoned the sky.
That's why it's cruel to leave her newly sunburnt
with as many balconies as single nests
and as many steps as never expected.
Here will always be, here, the enemies,
spies aleves of loneliness,
the legs of a woman who drag my eyes
away from the unknown fingers equation.
Here there are birds, rain, some death,
dry leaves, horns and desolate names,
clouds that grow in my window
while the humidity brings laments and flies.
However, there is also the past
with his sudden roses and modest scandals
with its hard sounds of any anxiety
and his insignificant itching of memories.
Oh, if I could choose my landscape
I would choose, I would steal this street,
this newly sun-drenched street
in which I fiercely revive
and of which I know with strict nostalgia
the number and the name of its seventy trees.
If I could choose my landscape
of memorable things, my landscape
of desolate autumn,
I would choose, I would steal this street
which is prior to me and everyone.
She returns my useless gaze,
that of just fifteen or twenty years ago
when the green house poisoned the sky.
That's why it's cruel to leave her newly sunburnt
with as many balconies as single nests
and as many steps as never expected.
Here will always be, here, the enemies,
spies aleves of loneliness,
the legs of a woman who drag my eyes
away from the unknown fingers equation.
Here there are birds, rain, some death,
dry leaves, horns and desolate names,
clouds that grow in my window
while the humidity brings laments and flies.
However, there is also the past
with his sudden roses and modest scandals
with its hard sounds of any anxiety
and his insignificant itching of memories.
Oh, if I could choose my landscape
I would choose, I would steal this street,
this newly sun-drenched street
in which I fiercely revive
and of which I know with strict nostalgia
the number and the name of its seventy trees.
..........
Songs of the Angels
Songs of the Angels
I have not released my angel for a long time,
and I have become poor in my arms,
He became small, and I became great:
suddenly I was compassion;
and he, only, a trembling plea.
I gave him his heaven then: he left me
He was close, he was leaving;
to learn, I learned life,
and we recognized each other, slowly ...
Although my angel has no duty anymore,
for my strongest day displaced,
He sometimes lowers his face with nostalgia,
as if he did not want his heaven already.
I would like to lift again, from my poor
days, on the tops of the forests
murmured, my pale prayers
the homeland of the cherubs is enough.
There he carried my original cry
and thoughts; and my tiny ones
pains went there forests
who whisper about him ...
Yes someday, in the lands of life,
between fair and market noise,
the pallor I forget about my childhood
flowered, and I forget the first angel,
his goodness, his clothes and his hands
in prayer, his hand blessing;
I will keep my dreams more secret
always folding on those wings,
that like a white cypress
they were behind him ...
His hands remained as blind
birds that, deceived by the sun,
when, on the waves, others
they went to perennial springs,
have to face the winter winds
in the empty linden trees, without foliage.
There was shame on his cheeks
of brides, that the horror of the soul
clog with dark purples
before the husband.
And in the eyes there was
glow of the first day:
but above all
the carrier wings stood out ...
There was expectation in the plain
by a guest who never came:
still ask maybe the tremulous garden:
his smile then becomes invalid.
And because of the boring mudflats
the mall is impoverished in the afternoon,
the apples are anguished in the branches
and they make them suffer all the winds.
It's where the last cabins are
and new houses that, with a narrow chest,
they appear squeezed, between scary scaffolds,
They want to know where the field starts.
There the spring is always pale, half-baked,
summer is feverish behind those tables:
plums and children get sick,
and only autumn there has something
of remote and conciliatory: sometimes
they are its afternoons of soft melting:
doze the sheep, and the shepherd with zamarra
it leans, dark, on the last lamppost.
Sometime it happens in the deep night
that the wind wakes up, like a child,
and passes the mall, lonely,
I stay, I stay, reaching the village.
And groping goes marching to the pond
and stops later to hear around:
and the houses are pale all
and the silent oaks ...
Rainer Maria Rilke (Prague, 1875 - Switzerland, 1
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