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Archive for February, 2011

La Jardinera


Para olvidarme de ti

voy a cultivar la tierra,

en ella espero encontrar

remedio para mis penas.

 

Aquí plantaré el rosal

de las espinas más gruesas,

tendré lista la corona

para cuando en mi te mueras.

 

Para mi tristeza violeta azul,

clavelina roja pa mi pasión

y para saber si me correspondes

deshojo un blanco manzanillón.

Si me quierés mucho, poquito, nada,

tranquilo queda mi corazón.

 

Creciendo irán poco a poco

los alegres pensamientos

cuando ya estén florecidos

irá lejos tu recuerdo.

 

De la flor de la amapola

seré su mejor amiga,

la pondré bajo la almohada

para dormirme tranquila.

 

Cogollo de toronjil,

cuando me aumentan las penas

las flores de mi jardín

han de ser mis enfermeras.

 

Y si acaso yo me ausento

antes que tú te arrepientas

heredarás estas flores,

ven a curarte con ellas

 
– Violeta Parra

 

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“The most wonderful of all things in life is the discovery of another human being with whom one’s relationship has a growing depth, beauty and joy as the years increase. This inner progressiveness of love between two human beings is a most marvelous thing; it cannot be found by looking for it or by passionately wishing for it. It is a sort of divine accident, and the most wonderful of all things in life.”

– Sir Hugh Walpole

 

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Besame – Raul Paz

www.youtube.com/watch?v=d7gpbCLBAFU

Ven, desnúdate, acércate a mí…Y que se pierda allá, afuera,Todo el tiempo que queda Entre el principio y el fin.

Bésame, bésame en la boca, bésame…Que mis labios tocan tu alma que flota mojada de miel
Y te quiero tener y me quieres tener.Sólo ven y bésame
Ven, acércate más, descúbreme, descúbrete,Y no me cuentes que sabes, ni preguntes verdades
Que te alejen de mí.Bésame, bésame en la boca, bésame…Que tus labios tocan, mis notas, mi ropa
Y te quiero sentir como al mar sobre mí Sin pensar ni morir, sin correr ni olvidar.Despacio bésame,bésame en la boca, bésame…

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When you love someone, you do not love them all the time, in exactly the same way, from moment to moment. It is an impossibility. It is even a lie to pretend to. And yet this is exactly what most of us demand. We have so little faith in the ebb and flow of life, of love, of relationships. We leap at the flow of the tide and resist in terror its ebb. We are afraid it will never return. We insist on permanency, on duration, on continuity; when the only continuity possible, in life as in love, is in growth, in fluidity – in freedom, in the sense that the dancers are free, barely touching as they pass, but partners in the same pattern.

The only real security is not in owning or possessing, not in demanding or expecting, not in hoping, even. Security in a relationship lies neither in looking back to what was in nostalgia, nor forward to what it might be in dread or anticipation, but living in the present relationship and accepting it as it is now. Relationships must be like islands, one must accept them for what they are here and now, within their limits – islands, surrounded and interrupted by the sea, and continually visited and abandoned by the tides.

– Anne Morrow Lindbergh

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There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, “She is near, she is near;”
And the white rose weeps, “She is late;”
The larkspur listens, “I hear, I hear;”
And the lily whispers, “I wait.”

She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead,
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.

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Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

– W B Yeats

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‘What is REAL?’ asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room.  ‘Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?’

‘Real isn’t how you are made,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘It’s a thing that happens to you. When someone loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, buy REALLY loves you, then you become Real.’

‘Does it hurt? Asked the Rabbit.

‘Sometimes,’ said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. ‘When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.’

‘Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,’ he asked, ‘or bit by bit?’

‘ It doesn’t happen all at once,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.’

‘I suppose you are real?’ said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse only smiled.

‘Someone made me Real,’ he said. ‘That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can’t become unreal again. It lasts for always.’

– Margery Williams

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