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Dum loquimur, fugerit inuida aetas: carpe diem,
quam minimum credula postero.
Mientras vamos hablando, se habrá escapado
el envidioso tiempo: goza del día de hoy, y
no confíes mucho en el futuro.
Horacio (65-8 bc). Odas


¿Quién ni siquiera la luna
que te baña, podría
competir en belleza y en misterio
contigo?
José Mª Álvarez


Alabo las nubes que son como pulmones de luz
Alabo la furia del ratón, la consideración del lobo
Alabo al perro que vive con la gente y nunca será uno de ellos
Alabo la profundidad de los armarios
Alabo los jardineros, los gusanos, las pequeñas plantas que
se alaban a si mismas
Alabo las maneras de la sombra, de la sombra que veo, de la
que no puedo ver
Alabo a aquellos que han hecho de sus cuerpos la embajada
final de la carne
Alabo el fracaso de aquellos con ambición, a los autores de
folletines y cuadernos de nada
Alabo la luna que soporta a los hombres
Alabo el dolor del renacimiento y la felicidad de la caída
Alabo todo por nada, porque carece de precio
Alabo la mañana cuyo sol reposa en mí
Alabo la tarde cuyo hijo soy yo
Versos de Mark Strand entresacados del poema “una letanía”,
publicado en su libro “Solo una canción” editado por Pre-Textos
en traducción de Eduardo Chirinos.


Con sosegados ojos miro el
bosque, con tal gracia latiendo
que me parece un soplo de su
espíritu esa dicha invisible que
a mi pecho ha venido.
Francisco Brines


Tijeras de oro en el poniente.
Se enciende un violín ruiseñor
en el esqueleto del mar.
Garras de nubes estrangulan
el azul, y lo hacen gemir.
José Hierro


¿Quién puso, entre rocas de ceniza,
para la miel del sueño,
esas retamas de oro
y esas flores de romero?
La sierra de violeta
y, en el poniente, el azafrán del cielo,
¿quién ha pintado? ¿El abejar, la ermita,
el tajo sobre el río, el sempiterno
rodar del agua entre las hondas peñas,
y el rubio verde de los campos nuevos,
y todo, hasta la tierra blanca y rosa
al pie de los almendros!
Antonio Machado

Dum loquimur, fugerit inuida aetas: carpe diem,
quam minimum credula postero.
As we are talking the envious time will have
escaped: enjoy the day of today, and don’t
entrust much of the future.
Horacio (65-8 bc). Odas


If these green woods be dreaming
here to wake within my heart,
if I should rouse again.
W. Faulkner


I praise the clouds that are like lungs of Light
I praise the mouse’s fury, the wolf’s consideration
I praise the depth of closets
I praise the gardeners, the Worms and the small plants that praise
each other
I praise all manner of shade, that which I see and that which I do not
I praise those who have made of their bodies final embassies of flesh
I praise the failure of those with ambition, the authors of leaflets and
notebooks of nothing
I praise the moon for suffering men
I praise the pain of revival and the bliss of decline
I praise all for nothing because there is no price
I praise the morning whose sun is upon me
I praise the evening whose son I am
Excerpts from the Mark Strand’s poem “from a litany”,
in his book “The one song”, published by Pre-Textos,
and translated to Spanish by Eduardo Chirinos.


Oh! How I love, on a fair
summer’s eve, when streams
of light pour down the golden
west, and the balmy zephyrs
tranquil rest the silver clouds,
far-far away to leave all
manner thoughts, and take
a sweet reprieve.
From little cares; to find,
with easy quest a fragrant
wild, with Nature’s beauty
dressed, and there into
delight my soul device.
J. Keats


Full many
a glorious morning
have I seen flatter the
mountain-tops with
sovereign eye, kissing with
golden face the meadows
green, gilding pale streams
with heavenly alchemy…
W. Shakespeare


What star is there that falls,
with none to watch it?
What sun is there more
permanent than darkness?
What moon is there that cracks not?
ay, what laughter, what purse is there
that empties not with spending?
W. Faulkner

If these green woods be dreaming
here to wake within my heart,
if I should rouse again.
W. Faulkner


I praise the clouds that are like lungs of Light
I praise the mouse’s fury, the wolf’s consideration
I praise the depth of closets
I praise the gardeners, the Worms and the small plants that praise
each other
I praise all manner of shade, that which I see and that which I do not
I praise those who have made of their bodies final embassies of flesh
I praise the failure of those with ambition, the authors of leaflets and
notebooks of nothing
I praise the moon for suffering men
I praise the pain of revival and the bliss of decline
I praise all for nothing because there is no price
I praise the morning whose sun is upon me
I praise the evening whose son I am
Excerpts from the Mark Strand’s poem “from a litany”,
in his book “The one song”, published by Pre-Textos,
and translated to Spanish by Eduardo Chirinos.


Oh! How I love, on a fair
summer’s eve, when streams
of light pour down the golden
west, and the balmy zephyrs
tranquil rest the silver clouds,
far-far away to leave all
manner thoughts, and take
a sweet reprieve.
From little cares; to find,
with easy quest a fragrant
wild, with Nature’s beauty
dressed, and there into
delight my soul device.
J. Keats


Full many
a glorious morning
have I seen flatter the
mountain-tops with
sovereign eye, kissing with
golden face the meadows
green, gilding pale streams
with heavenly alchemy…
W. Shakespeare


What star is there that falls,
with none to watch it?
What sun is there more
permanent than darkness?
What moon is there that cracks not?
ay, what laughter, what purse is there
that empties not with spending?
W. Faulkner

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