-Mística Artística-

viernes, 8 de septiembre de 2017

Funeral Blues - Wystan Hugh Auden (1907-1973)

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

lunes, 4 de septiembre de 2017

dijo William Blake (traducción propia)

“The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing which stands in the way… As a man is, so he sees.”

"El árbol que mueve a algunos hasta lágrimas de alegría, es en los ojos de otros sólo un objeto verde parada en el camino... Como un ser humano es, así ve."

William Blake (1799)