Variaciones sobre una frase de Cristo

Dad a Dios lo que es de Dios y al Cesar lo que es del Cesar.

I
Dad a Dios lo que es de Dios
y al gobierno fascista del presidente Molina
lo que es del gobierno fascista del presidente Molina.

Yo no pretendo saber desde mi pequeñez
todo lo que es de Dios

Pero si estoy seguro de lo que debemos dar
al gobierno fascista del presidente Molina

II
Dad a Dios lo que es de Dios
y al gobierno de los ricos
lo que es del gobierno de los ricos
Pero,
¿Qué más vamos a darle al gobierno de los ricos
si con ayuda de su gobierno los ricos ya acabaron
de quitárnoslo todo?


Roque Dalton
Poemas clandestinos

For the fallen...

Interesante poema, fue escrito al inicio de la Primera guerra mundial, en especial ,
me gusta el texto en negrillas

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is a music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncountered:
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables at home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end they remain.

 -- Laurence Binyon

The misterious stranger ( Mark Twain )

"....Strange! that you should not have suspected years ago -- centuries, ages, eons, ago! -- for you have existed, companionless, through all the eternities. Strange, indeed, that you should not have suspected that your universe and its contents were only dreams, visions, fiction! Strange, because they are so frankly and hysterically insane -- like all dreams: a God who could make good children as easily as bad, yet preferred to make bad ones; who could have made every one of them happy, yet never made a single happy one; who made them prize their bitter life, yet stingily cut it short; who gave his angels eternal happiness unearned, yet required his other children to earn it; who gave his angels painless lives, yet cursed his other children with biting miseries and maladies of mind and body; who mouths justice and invented hell -- mouths mercy and invented hell -- mouths Golden Rules, and forgiveness multiplied by seventy times seven, and invented hell; who mouths morals to other people and has none himself; who frowns upon crimes, yet commits them all; who created man without invitation, then tries to shuffle the responsibility for man's acts upon man, instead of honorably placing it where it belongs, upon himself; and finally, with altogether divine obtuseness, invites this poor, abused slave to worship him!...

men follow courage ....

Robert the Bruce: I'm not a coward. I want what you want, but we need the nobles.
William Wallace: We need them?
Robert the Bruce: Aye
William Wallace: Nobles. Now tell me, what does that mean to be noble? Your title gives you claim to the throne of our country, but men don't follow titles, they follow courage. Now our people know you. Noble, and common, they respect you. And if you would just lead them to freedom, they'd follow you. And so would I

El gusto de la nada

¡Triste espiritu, en otro tiempo amante de la lucha,
la Esperanza, cuya espuela aviva tu ardor,
no quiere ya montarte! Tiéndete sin pudor,
vi8ejo caballo cuyas patas tropiezan en cada obstáculo.

Resígnate, corazón mío; duerme tu sueño de bruto.

¡Espíritu vencido, extenuado! Para ti, viejo merodeador,
el amor no tiene ya gusto, ni tampoco la disputa;
¡adiós pues, cantos del cobre y suspiros de la flauta!,
¡placceres, no tentéis ya a un coraz´son sombrío y gruñón.

¡La adorable primabvera ha perdido su olor!

Y el Tiempo me devora minuto a minuto,
como la nieve inmensa a un cuerpo entumecido,
contemplo desde lo alto la redondez del globo,
y ya no busco en él el abrigo de una choza.

Avalancha, ¿quieres llevarme en tu caída ?

Flores del Mal, 1987, charles baudelaire..

---

Que puedo decir..... ni siquiera se por que me gusta como escribe este tipo ....

Odiar el amor

La luna se murió
aunque no creo en los ángeles.
La copa final transcurre
antes de la sed que sufro.
La grama azul se ha perdido
uyendo tras tu velamen.

La mariposa incneidando
su color, fue ceniza.
La madrugada fusila
rocío y pájaros mudos.
La desnudez me avergüenza
y me hace heridas de niño.

El corazon sin tus manos
es mi enemigo en el pecho.

El cinico

Claro es que no tengo en las manos
el derecho a morirme
ni siquiera en las abandonadas tardes de los domingos

Por otra parte se debe comprender que la muerte
es una manufactura inoficiosa
y que los suicidas
siempre tuvieron una mortal pereza
a sufrir.

Ademas, debo
la cuenta de la luz ....