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Monday, April 13, 2015

LLUVIA , Federico Garcia Lorca

LLUVIA

La lluvia tiene un vago secreto de ternura,
algo de soñolencia resignada y amable,
una música humilde se despierta con ella
que hace vibrar el alma dormida del paisaje.

Es un besar azul que recibe la Tierra,
el mito primitivo que vuelve a realizarse.
El contacto ya frío de cielo y tierra viejos
con una mansedumbre de atardecer constante.

Es la aurora del fruto. La que nos trae las flores
y nos unge de espíritu santo de los mares.
La que derrama vida sobre las sementeras
y en el alma tristeza de lo que no se sabe.

La nostalgia terrible de una vida perdida,
el fatal sentimiento de haber nacido tarde,
o la ilusión inquieta de un mañana imposible
con la inquietud cercana del color de la carne.

El amor se despierta en el gris de su ritmo,
nuestro cielo interior tiene un triunfo de sangre,
pero nuestro optimismo se convierte en tristeza
al contemplar las gotas muertas en los cristales.

Y son las gotas: ojos de infinito que miran
al infinito blanco que les sirvió de madre.

Cada gota de lluvia tiembla en el cristal turbio
y le dejan divinas heridas de diamante.
Son poetas del agua que han visto y que meditan
lo que la muchedumbre de los ríos no sabe.

¡Oh lluvia silenciosa, sin tormentas ni vientos,
lluvia mansa y serena de esquila y luz suave,
lluvia buena y pacifica que eres la verdadera,
la que llorosa y triste sobre las cosas caes!

¡Oh lluvia franciscana que llevas a tus gotas
almas de fuentes claras y humildes manantiales!
Cuando sobre los campos desciendes lentamente
las rosas de mi pecho con tus sonidos abres.

El canto primitivo que dices al silencio
y la historia sonora que cuentas al ramaje
los comenta llorando mi corazón desierto
en un negro y profundo pentagrama sin clave.

Mi alma tiene tristeza de la lluvia serena,
tristeza resignada de cosa irrealizable,
tengo en el horizonte un lucero encendido
y el corazón me impide que corra a contemplarte.

¡Oh lluvia silenciosa que los árboles aman
y eres sobre el piano dulzura emocionante;
das al alma las mismas nieblas y resonancias
que pones en el alma dormida del paisaje!

Toby the tomcat

Well I didn't choose the name. I didn't get him castrated nor did i do the chip implant.
Toby comes from an animal shelter in Ulm. The staff were not sure if they could give him away.
He had bitten and badly scratched each and everyone.
They said he was there the second time. First time very ill, kept at first in isolation, than in an outdoor enclosure from which he managed to escape. The second time when i met him he was kept in a special room together with other difficult cats.slowly calming down. Again he had arrived badly damaged and with many cuts from a pocket knife.
The first two weeks he managed to scratch and bite every visitor and me too, he couldn't trust and he was used to behave this way.
I just ignored him for a while whenever he did it.
They told me to keep him inside for 6 weeks, i let him go out after not quite 3.
I could see he felt at home.
Now he is my companion and a real joy to have around most of the time when he doesn't behave like a boy in puberty, a macho, a jealous king or a thief...:-).
Cats have a lot of character, and we have to let them go their own way...
home feels better with him around.
Sunday he had one of his walks with me, and then he had to come inside the restaurant a few houses away to look for me.
The born entertainer...a courageous fellow, or is it just curiousity and self-reliance?










Alela Diane - The Ocean

Giorgio Gaber - Non insegnate ai bambini

Do not teach to the kids, reather cultivate yourself your heart and mind, stay near to them trust love: everything else is nothing.



There's a Man Going Around Taking Names. Leadbelly

happens again and again to facebook friends...



flying fishes

Where is the origin,
if not in sleep,

The whale was
a shimmering sound
deep deep in the sea,
sleeping, dreaming.

I heard a monotonous
murmur, there was
this grid of lullaby sound
in the silence of the ocean

And then a need for air
and we rose with bubbles
into the cold waves,
white under the moon

splashing and blowing
sucking the joy of air
into three thousand litres
of lung, pure power

then tail fin up,
diving, leaving
me to see the sky
filled with flying fishes

and in the blue dawn
of infinite horizons,
i swim for my boat,
happy, half asleep















The travels of Marco Polo, Two islands called Male and Female

well, another source of wisdom as may be found in many old customs allover

http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Travels_of_Marco_Polo/Book_3/Chapter_31

Discourseth of the Two Islands Called Male and Female, and Why They Are So Called

When you leave this kingdom of Kesmacoran, which is on the mainland, you go by sea some 500 miles towards the south; and then you find the two Islands, MALE and FEMALE, lying about 30 miles distant from one another. The people are all baptized Christians, but maintain the ordinances of the Old Testament; thus when their wives are with child they never go near them till their confinement, or for forty days thereafter.
In the Island however which is called Male, dwell the men alone, without their wives or any other women. Every year when the month of March arrives the men all set out for the other Island, and tarry there for three months, to wit, March, April, May, dwelling with their wives for that space. At the end of those three months they return to their own Island, and pursue their husbandry and trade for the other nine months.
They find on this Island very fine ambergris. They live on flesh and milk and rice. They are capital fishermen, and catch a great quantity of fine large sea-fish, and these they dry, so that all the year they have plenty of food, and also enough to sell to the traders who go thither. They have no chief except a bishop, who is subject to the archbishop of another Island, of which we shall presently speak, called SCOTRA. They have also a peculiar language.
As for the children which their wives bear to them, if they be girls they abide with their mothers; but if they be boys the mothers bring them up till they are fourteen, and then send them to the fathers. Such is the custom of these two Islands. The wives do nothing but nurse their children and gather such fruits as their Island produces; for their husbands do furnish them with all necessaries.

Give me strength, Rabindranath Tagore, Gitanjali

Give Me Strength

This is my prayer to thee, my lord—-strike,
strike at the root of penury in my heart.

Give me the strength lightly to bear my joys and sorrows.

Give me the strength to make my love fruitful in service.

Give me the strength never to disown the poor or bend my knees before insolent might.

Give me the strength to raise my mind high above daily trifles.

And give me the strength to surrender my strength to thy will with love.

Poesia da Semana: Soneto de Fidelidade (Vinícius de Moraes)



De tudo ao meu amor serei atento
Antes, e com tal zelo, e sempre, e tanto
Que mesmo em face do maior encanto
Dele se encante mais meu pensamento.

Quero vivê-lo em cada vão momento
E em seu louvor hei de espalhar meu canto
E rir meu riso e derramar meu pranto
Ao seu pesar ou seu contentamento

E assim, quando mais tarde me procure
Quem sabe a morte, angústia de quem vive
Quem sabe a solidão, fim de quem ama

Eu possa me dizer do amor (que tive):
Que não seja imortal, posto que é chama
Mas que seja infinito enquanto dure.