domingo, 30 de agosto de 2009

The Negro Speaks of River...

I've known rivers:
I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln
went down to New Orleans,
and I've seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I've known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

Langston Hughes

domingo, 23 de agosto de 2009

From childhood's hour

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

Edgar Allan Poe

sábado, 15 de agosto de 2009


Someone to hold me tight,that would be very nice,
Someone to love me right,that would be very nice.
Someone to understand each little dream in me,
Someone to take my hand,to be a team with me.
So nice,life would be so nice if one day i`d find
Someone who would take my hand and samba through life with me.
Someone to cling with me,stay with me right or wrong,
Someone to sing with me some little samba song.
Someone to take my heart,then give this heart to me,
Someone who`s ready to give love a start with me.
Oh yes,that would be so nice.
Should it be you and me,i could see it would be nice.

Bebel Gilberto

lunes, 10 de agosto de 2009

People Types

There are three types of people in the world... the ones who keeps you alive... the ones who would otherwise cause you to die... and the ones who manage to do both at the same time....

jueves, 6 de agosto de 2009

What is Love


Love is an ILLUSION. Love is a LIE.

love is an illusion created by the stronger, dominating , in control member of the makes the weak crave for something to hold onto, whilst at the very same time, boosting the already overinflated status of the stronger is a metaphoric drug that many of us thirst and yearn ever so dearly for.until the day we realize that it is nothing more than an illusion.time to wake up and smell the lingering remnants of realism... status, security, stability... that's love in real's really not that pretty after all=)

note: it doesn't always end up this way. sometimes. like... once in a lifetime... love, devoid of all illuision actually does exist. but i reckon you have to be dealt a phenomenally good hand by fate in order to meet that special someone... wait... many will be special to you in their own unique way... but it's the most special one that i am refering to, anyone and i do mean ANYONE... can be deemed special... but the MOST special... she's something...
you have to look out as well... because a vast majority of them out there are tremendous experts in the trade, having been badly burnt and terribly lied too themselves. that's exactly what makes them an expert... they've been under illusions and pretence themselves in the past... and you're just part of a whole "what goes around comes around" phase. sometimes at the end of the day all you can do is to have your chin up and be happy that you were part of the experience. it's never bad to have loved... no matter what the outcome... but when it comes down to the crunch... you either have to become more of an expert yourself, or just hang on for the ride and pray that it stops at a pretty place... with that pretty little most special someone waiting for you at the lone bench in the corner of the station.


sábado, 1 de agosto de 2009

Poema 20

Puedo escribir los versos mas tristes esta noche.
Escribir, por ejemplo: "la noche está estrellada,
y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos."
El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.
Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.
En las noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos.
La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.
Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería.
Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.
Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.
Oír la noche inmensa, más inmensa sin ella.
Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío.
Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.
La noche está estrellada y ella no está conmigo.
Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.
Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.
Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.
Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo.
La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.
Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise.
Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.
De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos.
Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.
Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero
Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.
Porque en noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos,
mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.
Aunque éste sea el último dolor que ella me causa,
y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo.

Pablo Neruda

(english version)