Un hombre que cultiva un jardín, como quería Voltaire.El que agradece que en la tierra haya música.El que descubre con placer una etimología.Dos empleados que en un café del Sur juegan un silencioso ajedrez.El ceramista que premedita un color y una forma.Un tipógrafo que compone bien esta página, que tal vez no le agrada.Una mujer y un hombre que leen los tercetos finales de cierto canto.El que acaricia a un animal dormido.El que justifica o quiere justificar un mal que le han hecho.El que agradece que en la tierra haya Stevenson.El que prefiere que los otros tengan razón.Esas personas, que se ignoran, están salvando el mundo.J. L. Borges, “Los justos”

Un hombre que cultiva un jardín, como quería Voltaire.
El que agradece que en la tierra haya música.
El que descubre con placer una etimología.
Dos empleados que en un café del Sur juegan un silencioso ajedrez.
El ceramista que premedita un color y una forma.
Un tipógrafo que compone bien esta página, que tal vez no le agrada.
Una mujer y un hombre que leen los tercetos finales de cierto canto.
El que acaricia a un animal dormido.
El que justifica o quiere justificar un mal que le han hecho.
El que agradece que en la tierra haya Stevenson.
El que prefiere que los otros tengan razón.
Esas personas, que se ignoran, están salvando el mundo.

J. L. Borges, “Los justos”

Habemus Bowie

Habemus Bowie

somewhere I have never traveled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which I cannot touch because they are too near
 
your slightest look easily will unclose me though I have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose
 
or if your wish be to close me, I and my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending;
 
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility: whose texture compels me with the color of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing
 
(I do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
 
Some e.e. cummings for World Poetry Day!

somewhere I have never traveled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which I cannot touch because they are too near

 

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though I have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

 

or if your wish be to close me, I and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

 

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

 

(I do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

 

Some e.e. cummings for World Poetry Day!

My new post for “it fashion deals with David Bowie’s new album cover!! 

Read it in English (http://bit.ly/XFTqP8) or Spanish (http://bit.ly/Wkyxbt)! 

Looking forward to David Bowie’s new album in ten years, THE NEXT DAY

Looking forward to David Bowie’s new album in ten years, THE NEXT DAY