miércoles, 19 de diciembre de 2012


                                                Photo by Axel Hütte

Going north means going
into something deeper than silence.
Mist hangs for hours in the woods
and the apparitions singing in dreams
know places we will never see.
You will know you are north
by the edges of the day
and the slight aura surrounding the trees.
Something in your muscles will be trying
to remember ancient directions,
the way into old hunting grounds,
and if you died and someone
threw your bones into the water
they would swim together
and form a long arrow pointing north.

                                                               Michael Delp

martes, 11 de diciembre de 2012

Dos manos cercenadas salen de la tierra, de nuevo nutridas.
Aletean púrpuras como los hilos de las lilas, como dos
tendones deshilachados a medias.
Unos ojos caídos o las hojas
lloran sangre desde la tierra enmohecida, y con la luna
las manos atraen la violencia de la ciudad, lo

sábado, 8 de diciembre de 2012

                                                       Photo by Josef Sudek


" You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;"
"They called me the hyacinth girl."
- Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of the light, the silence.

                                                  The burial of the death (The Waste Land) T.S. ELIOT