I’d not seen them out in the open,
They grew in the alleys and lanes,
A purple flower with a sort of power
In the scent from its pores and veins,
I asked Romana the name of it
But she shuddered and turned away,
‘It’s a type of bloom called Purple Doom,
Or that’s what the gypsies say.’

The scent was sickly and sweet out there
I admit, it went to my head,
Romana came to the caravan
And made crazy love in bed.
The scent was an aphrodisiac
That drove normal men insane,
Our clothes were dropped and we couldn’t stop
Till we cried aloud in pain.

The aftermath was a migraine head
That we both endured that night,
And when we woke, she tried to choke me,
All we could do was fight.
At last, we came back down to earth
And surveyed the shattered room,
Romana said that we could be dead
From the scent of that Purple Doom.

I beat the weeds round the caravan,
I poked and prodded and pried,
Found Purple Doom, there in the gloom
So its scent was sweet inside.
I tore the clump right out by the roots
But I cut my hand, it bled,
I burnt the flower, curtailed its power
But with poison in my head.

I don’t remember the next few days
But I almost passed away,
I seemed to be wandering in the dark
Where the sky was always grey,
A castle rose in a fallow field
And I tried to cross the moat,
I called Romana ‘Lady Gay’
And she said, ‘Just stay afloat!’

But flowers assailed on every side
They were purple, pink and red,
Leaning in with their tendrils, seemed
To sip the blood I bled.
A gypsy shook me awake one day
And I slowly came around,
‘Don’t go bringing your caravan
And camping on gypsy ground!’

He’d gripped Romana by the hair
And tried to drag her away,
But she let loose with a gypsy curse
And he turned and fled that day.
We towed away the caravan,
And avoid all lanes and gloom,
But she retains a potpourri to
Make love with that Purple Doom.

David Lewis Paget

(for Nietzche, who cowers behind art.)

The world calls the conquered ******
to remember that the sun every night yearns

to rise, to rise, to rise

when there is no guarantee, no promise, no sure thing.
Yet still it yearns

to rise, to rise, to rise.

The world called Canaanites ******
while they traded and toiled along the shores
of land promised to the aged heretic of Sumer,
whose wife could give only love.

The world called Hebrews ******
while they raised Pharoah tombs
Provided respite from the eastern chariots
Stubborn in refusal of the living gods
Drinking only Eloheim's bitter grape
That provides brief respite from his decrees
When delving deep in one's cups.

The world called Britons ******
When flogged Boudicea fought and fought and finally fell
To Roman spear and gladius
When Angles and Saxons raided then stayed
When Cromwell climbed the pale cliffs

The world called the Iberians, Gauls and Teutons ******
when Caesar crossed the Rubicon
Pax Romana for Citizens born
Land for the wealthy, voting rights too
Taxes and tithes from their toil.

The world called the Khoikhoi of South Africa ******
From the VOC to fatal Apartheid
Up rose a man
The heart of the land
A man named Nelson Mandela.

The world called the Viet Minh ******
from Can Vong to Dien Bien Phu
'till they slogged howitzers above
to reign Napoleonic terror below.
And to them it was just
The American War
After the world called them
Vietnamese.

The world calls the conquered ******
to remember that the sun every day yearns

to rise, to rise, to rise

When there is no guarantee, no promise, no sure thing
yet still it yearns

to rise, to rise, to rise

'though it never watches its own rising
undoing raiment of fading embers
swimming naked in the royal blue
bathing all with daily newborn naked glory
chasing the celestial tidal tease
that seems to wander where it please
reminding that all are born free
but can grow into ignorance
and be called ******.

Seek truths
that hold in unity;
that provide nourishment
beneath the lash
allowing one

to rise, to rise, to rise.

Pompeii stood proud near Naples.
Close to Herculaneum.
When in August of AD 79.
Volcano magnificent erupted.
Without nonchalance.
A buried city born.
Complete with frescoes of erotica.
Were subject to ancient censorship.

City modern with flowing water.
Trendy port.
Gymnasium.
Modernist by all accounts.
Population 20 000.
Mostly perished in brimstone's evacuation.
From the deepest depths of hell.
Suffocated nearly all.
Asphyxiated on vile fumes.

Eruption cataclysmic.
City buried far underground.
By written description.
'Tis believed that hell on earth unleashed.
The day following magical celebrations.
Worshiping Vulcanalia the Roman God of Fire.
Ironic tragedy procured.

Few survived the tragedy.
Those that did ran free
Anarchy, starvation.
Mainly petty larceny.
Landscape near destroyed.

Pliny the Younger wrote in a letter.
Vivid description of images seen as Pliny the Elder tried to rescue a few.
Felt perhaps had a duty to do.
Was admiral proud of the Roman fleet.
His life taken in forfeit as citizens from the ash world perished.

Pax Romana followed tragedy.
Dealt such a wicked card.
Embalmed in ash citizens lay.
Locked forever on the spot as they ran away!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

ONE
Adam and Eve were born of flesh,
and woke from sleep, when God addressed
them both.
"Here is the world - unsoiled, unstained
(The sheet of the sea hides her breast and her veins.)
The time is uncertain; the end is ordained
and when it is finished, begin it again."

They saw God, saw
Lucifer, saw the tree:
felt oppressed. The world
was young but the book had
been opened. All stories conclude
in words and in gestures, wild and crude.
(They left heaven, fled to
the ambergris ocean, the
silk hills.)

TWO
Mad, they went to Egypt, built
Cairo in the delta where
her legs met, Thebes where
her eyes beat on the cataract
made cities on
her body on
credit, faith, and lust.
Until the groaning hungry ibis
and the famine drove them out.

THREE
From Egypt to Rome,
Adam to Caesar,
In Pliny's manuscript, Adam said:
"Here is Rome
a senate in your sympathy
an orphanage in your heart.
Come to his flat avenue, can't you
feel how far I've walked, on every flagstone?
Witness beaten sandals, frayed thongs;
feel your posture sag? I want to rest,
and I want you to help. I sat on the banks
of the Tiber; has Rome washed into my lap?
The streets are the furrows of my skin.

She said:
"I like a fire at my fingertips, not
bellowed to me under the floor."
Rome fell to that barbarian.

PAX ROMANA
God reminded them again.
Adam said:
"The knowledge is good, but it isn't a cure
for an Eden that seems so unlike the brochure."
He pulled back the skin of earth, and found,
a beating heart beneath the ground.
He knew, for once, the world would die.

IV
They went to ***** London, unhappy with
the lot of Rome. Amid the stench of a filthy Thames,
his blood ran with offal, with hate,
leached from the baiting pit, and she
did, too, in the ugly city,
from Knightsbridge to the sea.
They fought like monsters, fought a curse
that God foresaw, and they rehearsed.
An ugly city, from Knightsbridge to the sea,
and full of bitter folk.

V
Such is the end, a world
embalmed in salt and sand,
the leaves burned away; no cities
only orphaned tenderness under
ruined arches and aquaducts, wishing ill
but wanting that world returned,
and crying, yes, but knowing still,
their end was near; for all they yearned.

We have read this story cover to cover;
let Eve close the book, and pray in her sleep while
Adam dusts his hands,
and God begins anew.

R iver of silver blues, like a catch I found you, all the way here.
O h, how perfect your personality & painting,
- but how shortly & beautifully, you appeared.
M emories after memories, from cruise ships to eatery,
A nd like a good scenery, I remember your paintings,
N ever, have I felt so smitten by the accidents of life, but
A lso said so well, like a graven image of time,
    - "These are why moments are made so precious & divine."

Desde el amanecer, se cambia la ropa sucia de los altares y de los santos, que huele a rancia bendición, mientras los plumeros inciensan una nube de polvo tan espesa, que las arañas apenas hallan tiempo de levantar sus redes de equilibrista, para ir a ajustarías en los barrotes de la cama del sacristán.

Con todas las características del criminal nato lombrosiano, los apóstoles se evaden de sus nichos, ante las vírgenes atónitas, que rompen a llorar... porque no viene el peluquero a ondularles las crenchas.

Enjutos, enflaquecidos de insomnio y de impaciencia, los nazarenos pruébanse el capirote cada cinco minutos, o llegan, acompañados de un amigo, a presentarle la virgen, como si fuera su querida.

Ya no queda por alquilar ni una cornisa desde la que se vea pasar la procesión.

Minuto tras minuto va cayendo sobre la ciudad una manga de ingleses con una psicología y una elegancia de langosta.

A vista de ojo, los hoteleros engordan ante la perspectiva de doblar la tarifa.

Llega un cuerpo del ejército de Marruecos, expresamente para sacar los candelabros y la custodia del tesoro.

Frente a todos los espejos de la ciudad, las mujeres ensayan su mirada "Smith Wesson"; pues, como las vírgenes, sólo salen de casa esta semana, y si no cazan nada, seguirán siéndolo...
¡Campanas!
¡Repiqueteo de campanas!
¡Campanas con café con leche!
¡Campanas que nos imponen una cadencia al
abrocharnos los botines!
¡Campanas que acompasan el paso de la gente que pasa en las aceras!
¡Campanas!
¡Repiqueteo de campanas!

En la catedral, el rito se complica tanto, que los sacerdotes necesitan apuntador.

Trece siglos de ensayos permiten armonizar las florecencias de las rejas con el contrapaso de los monaguillos y la caligrafía del misal.

Una luz de "Museo Grevin" dramatiza la mirada vidriosa de los cristos, ahonda la voz de los prelados que cantan, se interrogan y se contestan, como esos sapos con vientre de prelado, una boca predestinada a engullir hostias y las manos enfermas de reumatismo, por pasarse las noches -de cuclillas en el pantano- cantando a las estrellas.

Si al repartir las palmas no interviniera una fuerza sobrenatural, los feligreses aplaudirían los rasos con que la procesión sale a la calle, donde el obispo -con sus ochenta kilos de bordados- bate el "record" de dar media vuelta a la manzana y entra nuevamente en escena, para que continúe la función...
¡Agua!
¡Agüita fresca!
¿Quién quiere agua?

En un flujo y reflujo de espaldas y de brazos, los acorazados de los cacahueteros fondean entre la multitud, que espera la salida de los "pasos" haciendo "pan francés".

Espantada por los flagelos de papel, la codicia de los pilletes revolotea y zumba en torno a las canastas de pasteles, mientras los nazarenos sacian la sed, que sentirán, en tabernas que expenden borracheras garantizadas por toda la semana.

Sin asomar las narices a la calle, los santos realizan el milagro de que los balcones no se caigan.

¡Agua!
¡Agüita fresca!
¿Quién quiere agua?
pregonan los aguateros al servirnos una reverencia de minué.

De repente, las puertas de la iglesia se abren como las de una esclusa, y, entre una doble fila de nazarenos que canaliza la multitud, una virgen avanza hasta las candilejas de su paso, constelada de joyas, como una cupletista.

Los espectadores, contorsionados por la emoción,
arráncanse la chaquetilla y el sombrero, se acalambran en
posturas de capeador, braman piropos que los nazarenos intentan callar
como el apagador que les oculta la cabeza.

Cuando el Señor aparece en la puerta, las nubes se envuelven con un crespón, bajan hasta la altura de los techos y, al verlo cogido como un torero, todas, unánimemente, comienzan a llorar.

¡Agua!
¡Agüita fresca!
¿Quién quiere agua?Las tribunas y las sillas colocadas enfrente del Ayuntamiento progresivamente se van ennegreciendo, como un pegamoscas de cocina.

Antes que la caballería comience a desfilar, los guardias civiles despejan la calzada, por temor a que los cachetes de algún trompa estallen como una bomba de anarquista.

Los caballos -la boca enjabonada cual si se fueran a afeitar- tienen las ancas tan lustrosas, que las mujeres aprovechan para arreglarse la mantilla y averiguar, sin darse vuelta, quién unta una mirada en sus caderas.

Con la solemnidad de un ejército de pingüinos, los nazarenos escoltan a los santos, que, en temblores de debutante, representan "misterios" sobre el tablado de las andas, bajo cuyos telones se divisan los pies de los "gallegos", tal como si cambiaran una decoración.

Pasa:
El Sagrado Prendimiento de Nuestro Señor, y Nuestra Señora del Dulce Nombre.
El Santísimo Cristo de las Siete Palabras, y María Santísima de los Remedios.
El Santísimo Cristo de las Aguas, y Nuestra Señora del Mayor Dolor.
La Santísima Cena Sacramental, y Nuestra Señora del Subterráneo.
El Santísimo Cristo del Buen Fin, y Nuestra Señora de la Palma.
Nuestro Padre Jesús atado a la Columna, y Nuestra Señora de las Lágrimas.
El Sagrado Descendimiento de Nuestro Señor, y La Quinta Angustia de María Santísima.

Y entre paso y paso:
¡Manzanilla! ¡Almendras garrapiñadas! ¡Jerez!

Estrangulados por la asfixia, los "gallegos" caen de rodillas cada cincuenta metros, y se resisten a continuar regando los adoquines de sudor, si antes no se les llena el tanque de aguardiente.

Cuando los nazarenos se detienen a mirarnos con sus ojos vacíos, irremisiblemente, algún balcón gargariza una "saeta" sobre la multitud, encrespada en un ¡ole!, que estalla y se apaga sobre las cabezas, como si reventara en una playa.

Los penitentes cargados de una cruz desinflan el pecho de las mamas en un suspiro de neumático, apenas menos potente al que exhala la multitud al escaparse ese globito que siempre se le escapa a la multitud.

Todas las cofradías llevan un estandarte, donde se lee:

                      S. P. Q. R.Es el día en que reciben todas las vírgenes de la ciudad.

Con la mantilla negra y los ojos que matan, las hembras repiquetean sus tacones sobre las lápidas de las aceras, se consternan al comprobar que no se derrumba ni una casa, que no resucita ningún Lázaro, y, cual si salieran de un toril, irrumpen en los atrios, donde los hombres les banderillean un par de miraduras, a riesgo de dejarse coger el corazón.

De pie en medio de la nave -dorada como un salón-, las vírgenes expiden su duelo en un sólido llanto de rubí, que embriaga la elocuencia de prospecto medicinal con que los hermanos ponderan sus encantos, cuando no optan por alzarles las faldas y persuadir a los espectadores de que no hay en el globo unas pantorrillas semejantes.

Después de la vigésima estación, si un fémur no nos ha perforado un intestino, contemplamos veintiocho "pasos" más, y acribillados de "saetas", como un San Sebastián, los pies desmenuzados como albóndigas, apenas tenemos fuerza para llegar hasta la puerta del hotel y desplomarnos entre los brazos de la levita del portero.

El "menú" nos hace volver en sí. Leemos, nos refregamos los ojos y volvemos a leer:

"Sopa de Nazarenos."
"Lenguado a la Pío X."

-¡Camarero! Un bife con papas.
-¿Con Papas, señor?...
-¡No, hombre!, con huevos fritos.Mientras se espera la salida del Cristo del Gran Poder, se reflexiona: en la superioridad del marabú, en la influencia de Goya sobre las sombras de los balcones, en la finura chinesca con que los árboles se esfuman en el azul nocturno.

Dos campanadas apagan luego los focos de la plaza; así, las espaldas se amalgaman hasta formar un solo cuerpo que sostiene de catorce a diez y nueve mil cabezas.

Con un ritmo siniestro de Edgar Poe -¡cirios rojos ensangrientan sus manos!-, los nazarenos perforan un silencio donde tan sólo se percibe el tic-tac de las pestañas, silencio desgarrado por "saetas" que escalofrían la noche y se vierten sobre la multitud como un líquido helado.

Seguido de cuatrocientas prostitutas arrepentidas del pecado menos original, el Cristo del Gran Poder camina sobre un oleaje de cabezas, que lo alza hasta el nivel de los balcones, en cuyos barrotes las mujeres aferran las ganas de tirarse a lamerle los pies.

En el resto de la ciudad el resplandor de los "pasos" ilumina las caras con una técnica de Rembrandt. Las sombras adquieren más importancia que los cuerpos, llevan una vida más aventurera y más trágica. La cofradía del "Silencio", sobre todo, proyecta en las paredes blancas un "film" dislocado y absurdo, donde las sombras trepan a los tejados, violan los cuartos de las hembras, se sepultan en los patios dormidos.

Entre "saetas" conservadas en aguardiente pasa la "Macarena", con su escolta romana, en cuyas corazas de latón se trasuntan los espectadores, alineados a lo largo de las aceras.

¡Es la hora de los churros y del anís!

Una luz sin fuerza para llegar al suelo ribetea con tiza las molduras y las aristas de las casas, que tienen facha de haber dormido mal, y obliga a salir de entre sus sábanas a las nubes desnudas, que se envuelven en gasas amarillentas y verdosas y se ciñen, por último, una túnica blanca.

Cuando suenan las seis, las cigüeñas ensayan un vuelo matinal, y tornan al campanario de la iglesia, a reanudar sus mansas divagaciones de burócrata jubilado.

Caras y actitudes de chimpancé, los presidiarios esperan, trepados en las rejas, que las vírgenes pasen por la cárcel antes de irse a dormir, para sollozar una "saeta" de arrepentimiento y de perdón, mientras en bordejeos de fragata las cofradías que no han fondeado aún en las iglesias, encallan en todas las tabernas, abandonan sus vírgenes por la manzanilla y el jerez.

Ya en la cama, los nazarenos que nos transitan las circunvoluciones redoblan sus tambores en nuestra sien, y los churros, anidados en nuestro estómago, se enroscan y se anudan como serpientes.

Alguien nos destornilla luego la cabeza, nos desabrocha las costillas, intenta escamotearnos un riñón, al mismo tiempo que un insensato repique de campanas nos va sumergiendo en un sopor.

Después... ¿Han pasado semanas? ¿Han pasado minutos?... Una campanilla se desploma, como una sonda, en nuestro oído, nos iza a la superficie del colchón.
¡Apenas tenemos tiempo de alcanzar el entierro!...

¿Cuatrocientos setenta y ocho mil setecientos noventa y nueve "pasos" más?

¡Cristos ensangrentados como caballos de picador! ¡Cirios que nunca terminan de llorar! ¡Concejales que han alquilado un frac que enternece a las Magdalenas! ¡Cristos estirados en una lona de bombero que acaban de arrojarse de un balcón! ¡La Verónica y el Gobernador... con su escolta de arcángeles!

¡Y las centurias romanas... de Marruecos, y las Sibilas, y los Santos Varones! ¡Todos los instrumentos de la Pasión!... ¡Y el instrumento máximo, ¡la Muerte!, entronizada sobre el mundo..., que es un punto final!

¿Morir? ¡Señor! ¡Señor!
¡Libradnos, Señor!
¿Dormir? ¡Dormir! ¡Concedédnoslo,
Señor!

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…a threefold cord is not quickly broken.
(Ecclesiastes 4:12)


A pastoress once bore a name
which merits neither guilt nor shame;
Pentecosta Charismania
(biblical in megalomania).
Worthy of poetic fame,
a brilliant if unstable flame.
Sincere she was, yet volatile,
she brought it down, revival-style.
At altar calls, she could inspire
tongues of glossolalian fire.
The Devil she would oft rebuke
with lines from John, or Paul, or Luke;
a prophetess on holy crack
was Pentecosta on the attack…

Her nemesis was prudent, able
doctrinally dull—but stable:
Patriciana Presbyteria.
Less given to divine hysteria,
wisdom did adorn her table.
And her soul bore well the label.
No prophecies escaped her lips
nor prone to divinating slips;
this sensible reformed young maid
was made to have and have it made
Elect, correct in doctrine, wit
invested in no counterfeit
her pop’s portfolio lent her worth:
not less than heaven cashed on earth.

Mocking these unseemly heretics
swayed by neither sects nor politics
was Maria Della Romana
Faithful matron, primadonna,
loyal to her Papal rite,
she grieved her sisters by candlelight;
fingered furious rosaries
stormed the gates with St. Peter’s keys
beseeching Jesus that they turn
from devil’s doctrines fit to burn,
rejoin the holy Mother Church
rather than their souls besmirch
with further Antichristian sin.
(She genuflected fit to win.)

God is known in Trinity
but less through femininity:
His three adherents, flamed by One
like braided gold reflecting sun
are Christian fates: three tendencies
or triplicate analyses,
tripartite in judgemental grace
each one assumed, with zealous face
that the other two could not be saved
as sure as Heaven’s roads are paved
with wisdom’s gold and Christ’s pure light.
(They made a most amusing sight.)
Since threefold cords cannot be broken,
let my punchline rest, unspoken.

Femenina, pero sin excesos,
que fluya la luz de sus ojos
pero sin apagar los neones
de MONSANTO, luz biodegradable
pero agradable al tacto.
Libre y Natural, como un sombrero.
Mezcla sutil de lana y jacquard.
Silueta relajada a la altura del *****
como una virgen romana,
y un concierto de colores húmedos
según va cayendo la tarde
Muy casual a partir de los labios
y un lindo ABCdario  entre las piernas.
Transmisión sin pausa, dejando un eco
al volver a casa, sin caer en brazos
de una sonrisa armada hasta los dientes.
El color blanco es su aliado
y los pájaros pintados en el jardín
de sus sueños, en las manos, la imprescindible
lencería  de una imaginación sin prisas,
y la siempre impredecible pasión
en su fresquito pequeño, aroma a alba
con un poco de opio en los cristales.
Un look de muerte para terminar
con el ideal de hombre, todo sin dejar de ofrecer
la cara oculta de su luna, un poco descabellada
al caminar por el Mercado
dejando claro que su hogar no se marchita.
El éxito como una póliza de seguros
guardado a la altura de su láctea paradoja.
Y de vez en vez mostrar la plantación de flores
cultivadas por la maniquí secreta
que en ASIA o en los fiordos del alma, arde.
Sin dejar oír nunca un si te quiero
que no sea el fru fru de su trastienda,
seda y sede de coral *****, y una navajita
para degollar pecado como peces
sin dejar de ser sofisticada con los dedos
y una delicadez a prueba de balas.

Es lo que se va llevar en las Avenidas de este Otoño.
Y un cielo en rama para amar un poco.

Un haiku as scriu                  
Dacă eu as stapani
Limba Romana

Fabio, las esperanzas cortesanas
Prisiones son do el ambicioso muere
Y donde al más astuto nacen canas.

El que no las limare o las rompiere,
Ni el nombre de varón ha merecido,
Ni subir al honor que pretendiere.

El ánimo plebeyo y abatido
Elija, en sus intentos temeroso,
Primero estar suspenso que caído;

Que el corazón entero y generoso
Al caso adverso inclinará la frente
Antes que la rodilla al poderoso.

Más triunfos, más coronas dio al prudente
Que supo retirarse, la fortuna,
Que al que esperó obstinada y locamente.

Esta invasión terrible e importuna
De contrario sucesos nos espera
Desde el primer sollozo de la cuna.

Dejémosla pasar como a la fiera
Corriente del gran Betis, cuando airado
Dilata hasta los montes su ribera.

Aquel entre los héroes es contado
Que el premio mereció, no quien le alcanza
Por vanas consecuencias del estado.

Peculio propio es ya de la privanza
Cuanto de Astrea fue, cuando regía
Con su temida espada y su balanza.

El oro, la maldad, la tiranía
Del inicuo procede y pasa al bueno.
¿Qué espera la virtud o qué confía?

Ven y reposa en el materno seno
De la antigua Romúlea, cuyo clima
Te será más humano y más sereno.

Adonde por lo menos, cuando oprima
Nuestro cuerpo la tierra, dirá alguno:
«Blanda le sea», al derramarla encima;

Donde no dejarás la mesa ayuno
Cuando te falte en ella el pece raro
O cuando su pavón nos niegue Juno.

Busca pues el sosiego dulce y caro,
Como en la obscura noche del Egeo
Busca el piloto el eminente faro;

Que si acortas y ciñes tu deseo
Dirás: «Lo que desprecio he conseguido;
Que la opinion ****** es devaneo».

Más precia el ruiseñor su pobre nido
De pluma y leves pajas, más sus quejas
En el bosque repuesto y escondido,

Que halagar lisonjero las orejas
De algun príncipe insigne; aprisionado
En el metal de las doradas rejas.

Triste de aquel que vive destinado
A esa antigua colonia de los vicios,
Augur de los semblantes del privado.

Cese el ansia y la sed de los oficios;
Que acepta el don y burla del intento
El ídolo a quien haces sacrificios.

Iguala con la vida el pensamiento,
Y no le pasarás de hoy a mañana,
Ni quizá de un momento a otro momento.

Casi no tienes ni una sombra vana
De nuestra antigua Itálica, y ¿esperas?
¡Oh error perpetuo de la suerte humana!

Las enseñas grecianas, las banderas
Del senado y romana monarquía
Murieron, y pasaron sus carreras.

¿Qué es nuestra vida más que un breve día
Do apena sale el sol cuando se pierde
En las tinieblas de la noche fría?

¿Qué más que el heno, a la mañana verde,
Seco a la tarde? ¡Oh ciego desvarío!
¿Será que de este sueño me recuerde?

¿Será que pueda ver que me desvío
De la vida viviendo, y que está unida
La cauta muerte al simple vivir mío?

Como los ríos, que en veloz corrida
Se llevan a la mar, tal soy llevado
Al último suspiro de mi vida.

De la pasada edad ¿qué me ha quedado?
O ¿qué tengo yo, a dicha, en la que espero,
Sin ninguna noticia de mi hado?

¡Oh, si acabase, viendo cómo muero,
De aprender a morir antes que llegue
Aquel forzoso término postrero;

Antes que aquesta mies inútil siegue
De la severa muerte dura mano,
Y a la común materia se la entregue!

Pasáronse las flores del verano,
El otoño pasó con sus racimos,
Pasó el invierno con sus nieves cano;

Las hojas que en las altas selvas vimos
Cayeron, ¡y nosotros a porfía
En nuestro engaño inmóviles vivimos!

Temamos al Señor que nos envía
Las espigas del año y la hartura,
Y la temprana pluvia y la tardía.

No imitemos la tierra siempre dura
A las aguas del cielo y al arado,
Ni la vid cuyo fruto no madura.

¿Piensas acaso tú que fue criado
El varón para rayo de la guerra,
Para surcar el piélago salado,

Para medir el orbe de la tierra
Y el cerco donde el sol siempre camina?
¡Oh, quien así lo entiende, cuánto yerra!

Esta nuestra porción, alta y divina,
A mayores acciones es llamada
Y en más nobles objetos se termina.

Así aquella que al hombre sólo es dada,
Sacra razón y pura, me despierta,
De esplendor y de rayos coronada;

Y en la fría región dura y desierta
De aqueste pecho enciende nueva llama,
Y la luz vuelve a arder que estaba muerta.

Quiero, Fabio, seguir a quien me llama,
Y callado pasar entre la gente,
Que no afecto los nombres ni la fama.

El soberbio tirano del Oriente
Que maciza las torres de cien codos
Del cándido metal puro y luciente

Apenas puede ya comprar los modos
Del pecar; la virtud es más barata,
Ella consigo misma ruega a todos.

¡Pobre de aquel que corre y se dilata
Por cuantos son los climas y los mares,
Perseguidor del oro y de la plata!

Un ángulo me basta entre mis lares,
Un libro y un amigo, un sueño breve,
Que no perturben deudas ni pesares.

Esto tan solamente es cuanto debe
Naturaleza al simple y al discreto,
Y algún manjar común, honesto y leve.

No, porque así te escribo, hagas conceto
Que pongo la virtud en ejercicio:
Que aun esto fue difícil a Epicteto.

Basta al que empieza aborrecer el vicio,
Y el ánimo enseñar a ser modesto;
Después le será el cielo más propicio.

Despreciar el deleite no es supuesto
De sólida virtud; que aun el vicioso
En sí propio le nota de molesto.

Mas no podrás negarme cuán forzoso
Este camino sea al alto asiento,
Morada de la paz y del reposo.

No sazona la fruta en un momento
Aquella inteligencia que mensura
La duración de todo a su talento.

Flor la vimos primero hermosa y pura,
Luego materia acerba y desabrida,
Y perfecta después, dulce y madura;

Tal la humana prudencia es bien que mida
Y dispense y comparta las acciones
Que han de ser compañeras de la vida.

No quiera Dios que imite estos varones
Que moran nuestras plazas macilentos,
De la virtud infames histriones;

Esos inmundos trágicos, atentos
Al aplauso común, cuyas entrañas
Son infaustos y oscuros monumentos.

¡Cuán callada que pasa las montañas
El aura, respirando mansamente!
¡Qué gárrula y sonante por las cañas!

¡Qué muda la virtud por el prudente!
¡Qué redundante y llena de ruido
Por el vano, ambicioso y aparente!

Quiero imitar al pueblo en el vestido,
En las costumbres sólo a los mejores,
Sin presumir de roto y mal ceñido.

No resplandezca el oro y los colores
En nuestro traje, ni tampoco sea
Igual al de los dóricos cantores.

Una mediana vida yo posea,
Un estilo común y moderado,
Que no lo note nadie que lo vea.

En el plebeyo barro mal tostado
Hubo ya quien bebió tan ambicioso
Como en el vaso múrrimo preciado;

Y alguno tan ilustre y generoso
Que usó, como si fuera plata neta,
Del cristal transparente y luminoso.

Sin la templanza ¿viste tú perfeta
Alguna cosa? ¡Oh muerte! ven callada,
Como sueles venir en la saeta,

No en la tonante máquina preñada
De fuego y de rumor; que no es mi puerta
De doblados metales fabricada.

Así, Fabio, me muestra descubierta
Su esencia la verdad, y mi albedrío
Con ella se compone y se concierta.

No te burles de ver cuánto confío,
Ni al arte de decir, vana y pomposa,
El ardor atribuyas de este brío.

¿Es por ventura menos poderosa
Que el vicio la virtud? ¿Es menos fuerte?
No la arguyas de flaca y temerosa.

La codicia en las manos de la suerte
Se arroja al mar, la ira a las espadas,
Y la ambición se ríe de la muerte.

Y ¿no serán siquiera tan osadas
Las opuestas acciones, si las miro
De más ilustres genios ayudadas?

Ya, dulce amigo, huyo y me retiro
De cuanto simple amé; rompí los lazos.
Ven y verás al alto fin que aspiro,
Antes que el tiempo muera en nuestros brazos.

Ínclitas razas ubérrimas, sangre de Hispania fecunda,
espíritus fratemos, luminosas almas, ¡salve!
Porque llega el momento en que habrán de cantar nuevos himnos
lenguas de gloria. Un vasto rumor llena los ámbitos;
mágicas ondas de vida van renaciendo de pronto;
retrocede el olvido, retrocede engañada la muerte;
se anuncia un reino nuevo, feliz sibila sueña
y en la caja pandórica, de que tantas desgracias surgieron
encontramos de súbito, talismánica, pura, rïente,
cual pudiera decirla en su verso Virgilio divino,
la divina reina de luz, ¡la celeste Esperanza!Pálidas indolencias, desconfianzas fatales que a tumba
o a perpetuo presidio condenasteis al noble entusiasmo,
ya veréis al salir del sol en un triunfo de liras,
mientras dos continentes, abonados de huesos gloriosos,
del Hércules antiguo la gran sombra soberbia evocando,
digan al orbe: la alta virtud resucita
que a la hispana progenie hizo dueña de siglos.Abominad la boca que predice desgracias eternas,
abominad los ojos que ven sólo zodíacos funestos,
abominad las manos que apedrean las ruinas ilustres,
o que la tea empuñan o la daga suicida.
Siéntense sordos ímpetus en las entrañas del mundo,
la inminencia de algo fatal hoy conmueve la Tierra;
fuertes colosos caen, se desbandan bicéfalas águilas,
y algo se inicia como vasto social cataclismo
sobre la faz del orbe. ¿Quién dirá que las savias dormidas
no despiertan entonces en el tronco del roble gigante
bajo el cual se exprimió la ubre de la loba romana?
¿Quién será el pusilánime que al vigor español niegue músculos
y que el alma española juzgase áptera y ciega y tullida?
No es Babilonia ni Nínive enterrada en olvido y en polvo,
ni entre momias y piedras reina que habita el sepulcro,
la nación generosa, coronada de orgullo inmarchito,
que hacia el lado del alba fija las miradas ansiosas,
ni la que tras los mares en que yace sepultada la Atlántida,
tiene su coro de vástagos altos, robustos y fuertes.Únanse, brillen, secúndense tantos vigores dispersos;
formen todos un solo haz de energía ecuménica.
Sangre de Hispania fecunda, sólidas, ínclitas razas,
muestren los dones pretéritos que fueron antaño su triunfo.
Vuelva el antiguo entusiasmo, vuelva el espíritu ardiente
que regará lenguas de fuego en esa epifanía.
Juntas las testas ancianas ceñidas de líricos lauros
y las cabezas jóvenes que la alta Minerva decora,
así los manes heroicos de los primitivos abuelos,
de los egregios padres que abrieron el surco pristino,
sientan los soplos agrarios de primaverales retornos
y el amor de espigas que inició la labor triptolémica.Un continente y otro renovando las viejas prosapias,
en espíritu unidos, en espíritu y ansias y lengua,
ven llegar el momento en que habrán de cantar nuevos himnos.La latina estirpe verá la gran alba futura:
en un trueno de música gloriosa, millones de labios
saludarán la espléndida luz que vendrá del Oriente,
Oriente augusto, en donde todo lo cambia y renueva
la eternidad de Dios, la actividad infinita.
Y así sea Esperanza la visión permanente en nosotros.
¡Ínclitas razas ubérrimas, sangre de Hispania fecunda!

The year is 180 AD
                                 The year is 2016 CE
        No one cares for the senators
                        Or the news
       The wage gap is growing wider   The country frequently finds itself divided
Threats abound from both within
                                       And outside
              One thousand years
          Of technology and culture
                  Will be lost again
              for one thousand years
             In the midst of a dark age
This is the end of Pax Romana
                       And, if we're not careful
                         The end of our own era

Demanding loyalty
being bonded to a pax romana,
contract or treaty
and craving attention
from all that I see
just as our fathers
and mothers before us
just as any good creator would do
I am focused on the worship of me.

Quisiera esta tarde divina de octubre
pasear por la orilla lejana del mar;
que la arena de oro, y las aguas verdes,
y los cielos puros me vieran pasar.
Ser alta, soberbia, perfecta, quisiera,
como una romana, para concordar
con las grandes olas, y las rocas muertas
y las anchas playas que ciñen el mar.
Con el paso lento, y los ojos fríos
y la boca muda, dejarme llevar;
ver cómo se rompen las olas azules
contra los granitos y no parpadear;
ver cómo las aves rapaces se comen
los peces pequeños y no despertar;
pensar que pudieran las frágiles barcas
hundirse en las aguas y no suspirar;
ver que se adelanta, la garganta al aire,
el hombre más bello, no desear amar...
Perder la mirada, distraídamente,
perderla y que nunca la vuelva a encontrar:
y, figura erguida, entre cielo y playa,
sentirme el olvido perenne del mar.

With every new love we find
We find an example from the past
How even the age of reason
Couldn't find a way to last
For every Henry the eigth
There is a Queen Elizabeth
For every war on earth
There was a war in heaven

And I want my history to be
The pax romana
But my boundaries will cease to grow
And I know
If I want to be who I'm meant to be
I'll have to fight some more
I'll send my mental legions
To the fore

Because try as we might
In different lives
We've all been here before
It was always a lesson learned

Ya los pícaros saben en Castilla
Cuál mujer es pesada y cuál liviana,
Y los bergantes sirven de Romana
Al cuerpo que con más diamantes brilla.
Ya llegó a Tabernáculo la silla,
Y cristalina el hábito profana
De la custodia, y temo que mañana
Añadirá a las hachas campanilla.
Al Trono en correones las banderas
Ceden en hacer gente, pues que toda
La juventud ocupan en hileras.
Una Silla es pobreza de una boda,
Pues empeñada en oro y vidrieras,
Antes la honra que el chapín se enloda.

this is an "etymological" petition, there's no "proof"
involved... let us just say,
   why do i never, and never will
cite an english "philosopher":
frankly? because there aren't any!
i know there are worthy examples
that kindly lend their tongue
to idle ears...
         but the english,
being counterparts of the swabians -
i.e. the saxons: are sophisticated
braggers of esteems -
    they parade upon the notion
that they are best as gesticulation,
fathoming their superiority upon
a gimmick! they they are superior
because of their accent...
      yet fathom half the work and twice
the leisure in competing with
the greeks in diacritical approach...
they really gave swallowed the
red herring... they never could
   keep dialectical approach to their
already shakespearean approach
of being two-faced sheep-shaggers
while pushing them off a cliff...
that's why i can't redeem or even consider
the english a philosophical race,
poetic, yes, but their demand for replacing
the greeks as: the "philosophers"?
that's too much, it was enough that they
imitated the romans and left the latin
script edenic...
  but to fathom an imitation of the greeks?
now you're pushing it!
******* bellybuttons of the world,
it has no bearing with greenwich being
the ******* meridian!
             you've pushed it, far enough!
you can be the "philosophers", once
you acknowledge diacritical markings,
and eradicate dyslexia!
          why are the poles so fathomable
with their tongue? clear, syllable, indicators,
diacritics = punctuation marks within
punctuation marks... which probably
means an enigma for you,
  and that subsequent paraphrase.
and it's an irony, i must call it
   german ironism,
                 for a people for efficient in work,
they were the ones to produce the most
philosophers worth citing,
i guess: once you become too efficient
you have to craft a tier of gifted bums...
intellectualism for your spare time...
which the german philosophers are,
bums,
            intellectuals that can fill a room
with more furniture than a carpenter...
odiously its very much imaginative / cognitive
furniture, kinda likefeng shui,
but less so...
               which is strange, since the germans
ought to be the last people able to think...
hence german ironism is a paradox
having replaced idealism,
   and the yiddish zenith...
       i think that's where god resides -
      his curiosity made him non-existent
in the darkest hours of auschwitz -
    he was like: huh? how the **** did that happen?!
there's a new fragrance in the air,
  it's not some englishman with his head
in a ****,
    it germanic, pure and simple,
   and only if it was the anglo-swabians
and not the anglo-saxons...
       ******* porridge-pie for all i care...
sure, john stuart mills,
       adam smith (an economist in the end) -
but the english are not a nation of philosophers,
which is odd, since they ought to be,
with however pointless jobs they invented
after having exported the meaning of labour to china,
and are the genesis of marxism,
which was tested in mongolia...
            oh, you didn't know?
yeah, mongolia was the laboratory in vitro
groundwork for communism -
mongolia = in vitro communism
   the warsaw pact = in vivo communism...
what?
       yet the persistency of the question
that is greater than a question per se -
for a nation of such ardent workers,
such efficient workers,
   such effective monstrous combatants of
economic prowess,
  who, sane enough among them,
could ever provide a book of philosophy?
   that's what i mean about german idealism
being replaced by das groß ironie -
the english have no chance in being philosophers:
it has become too cinematic for these people,
too: what's "real"?
    i can't treat them without a whip -
they are too an obsolete a people to compete
with either germanic or, (that dreaded association)
with the fhhhhhhench...
             the fwench! the fwench!
because the english have not allowed
    faking work, to making certain work
obsolete, they simply made working
obsolete, and faking the most apparent form
of work! no wonder that communism
originated in england!
   once more, if you don't like my scolding
whip-of-a-tongue to be on your case:
        in hope you enjoy the next bomb-blast!
but, how, how could the most efficient people
on this planet, provide enough time to
guarantee a family tree of philosophers?
   how could these people end up so
unimaginative and bored, as to provide the world
a kant, or a hegel?
           cracks in the ceiling i see: load the ark!
- and i will never cite an englishman's thought,
for the simple reason that:
   it's too late to test the englishman's
pompousness as the global meridian bellybutton!
about as centre as my ***-crack is to my nasal cavity
in my ****** geography.
       i can't cite them...
         i'll take these peoples seriously once
they wave goodbye to their multiplex romana -
and start bereaving their europeanism
akin to the icelandic peoples...
                 there is not a single greek among
them, they can fake it with their greek-cypriots -
but that gets you as far as feta cheese
            a shy kofta kebab, or a moussaka.
hence das groß ironie - for a people for efficient,
so engrossed in celebrating manual labour,
der deutschevolk, to be the rightful inheritors of
the greek thought?
         staggering...
unfathomable, unimaginable,
              but as the statement suggest:
  probably the greatest irony in world history...
i almost think there was no divine
intervention because of the creative output,
akin to a beethoven et al.
   i still will not cite an english "philosopher",
for there aren't any!
               and if there are:
they're probably as boring as any atheist is,
   or as any naturalist can be...
plus: it's not nice to shower others with compliments,
as it's never proper
   to admire another person's pair of shoes...
why? because you wouldn't swap them for yours;
the best advice you can give?
   do not give any advice.
               what's the worst compliment you can give
(akin to a woman asking what you're thinking)?
      i like your shoes.

p.s. i've only just realised,
the germans have so so many forms
of the direct article that the english
doesn't, without only the...
but like the rule shared among the two
languages, the indirect article is
plagued by its cousin english -
eine kangaroo, ein aphrodisiac -
                           a cat, an ape.

For peace is my profession
And I teach it like a Spartan
But my Athens begs the question
Do I come from planet Martian?
To keep council with your leaders
And to teach them how to build
In my likeness amphitheaters
And pay tribute to my guild
My Pax Romana in nirvana
Specializing in the art
Of planting seeds inside Madonnas
With my heathen Eden heart

Under some of the great powers
under the candy, under the great queen
of lightning and musical instruments,
the reasons for the night being white,
Valerie's London,                                       between the black of the air,
the air contract, and the moon,
the glycolic acid;
Then, the Willow and Georgia fish were full,
and ******* used the Arabic silver,
bronze, the second class of 10 pieces Arabic
for Arabic power. Association libraries
are the eyes of a poet or a poet who is unwanted,
that the young man of Africa's human texts,
Einstein had two small swords !!!!! The light goes on the sand
                                                          and the silver is clearly gleaming,
                                                          blue is printed, and a new light
             of the chest, music life,
             the price of black girls
             in the milky nail files,
             pet pollution British and Roman
             in the sky croftrom and the real
             wing is a stomach, the world's light,                      poplar, Biblió gave
             attention to the group Ming.                                Silver, Bronze, Iron, Bolivar Tivel 10: The science of the stadium;
science made for us 1 has been done for many years,
after which is not "public" and five cities
in Italy A Campiński Nadalin, which is a large area,
converts a bottle in a paint bar
with extraordinary stress which is a great bottle.
"The Black Beauty Valerius Rome,
David Knight and Chan Food,
the public music charge of the Glogolc,
Calgary Romana Natura ice seat,
the Italian gardening case of the fish,
Arabia, Georgia, bravely tied to the moon,
silver and bronze angels in space and lovers
on the banks of a well-wisher's sister, loyal
to a child, a sympathetic eye, a poem's eye,
or the free Iron American community?
Family is sand and blue light, the new English, lights, music and how Many years of life,                                                                 and love in the house ...

It all started with a little green book
That was read aloud to me
And the title of this book
Was the giving tree

And I loved it so much
That I asked for more
Pete the cat and rainbow fish
Cluttered my playroom floor

And as I grew a little bit older
So did the books that I was read
The wind in the willows and romana age eight
Were read to me in bed

Then there was rascal
and winnie the phoo
And as I grew older still
Spy school was there too

Then the most glorious thing happened
I found my first book!
I could read if I tyred
All I had to do was look

But it took me two weeks
To make even a dent
I had to give it back to library
I ran out of the time I was lent

And mary pope osborns
Blizzard of the blue moon
Was so hard to read
It had me feeling like a loon

and if I couldn’t read
A book about A magic tree house
Then how could I even read
Stuart the mouse

So I gave up reading for myself
And my dad read to me instead
I heard so many stores
Before I went to bed

There was Narnia
And all of its wondrous tales
There was Harry Potter’s magic
Rons Utter fails

And then a day came
Where I picked up a book
And I opened it up
And all it took was a look!

I was reading the book
All by myself
There was no body there
There was no one to help

H.G. wells was my favorite
There was no dout in my mind
That it was the way that the book was
It was its own special kind

But I soon came to find
That the time machine was not the only one
I read rascal with eas
It was all said and done

Then I wanted more
And more came for me
I could read by myself!
I could do what I please!

Then I read more spy school
And Then Percy Jackson too
I went through that phays
And I know you did too

Then I read this book
It only took me four days!
The fourth book of percy jackson
Was done in a haze!

And then there was Cinder
That I finished in three
That book series will always be
Special to me

And then the book
That left me in a daze
488 pages
In three fateful days

The school for good and evil
Put me on a spree
I was reading books faster
Than I could possibly be

I ran out of room on my shelf
I ran out of room on the floor
But still as I read
I was left craving more!

Let the sky fall in three
And Sunkissed in two
The selection in three
There was nothing I couldn’t do!

I cried over One degree of freedom
And wicked king left me aghast
I even read in the night
My bedtime long past

It so happened when
I was looking at my shelf one day
When I heard a little Fwomp
And too my dismay

The books around me came
Crashing down
One by one
They all hit the ground

And as I stood there in anger
Wishing that I could die
Something on the floor
Caught my eye

And as I took a better look
My eyes opened with glee
It was the little green book
That was read to me at age three

And then I realize
As I look at that book
That what it gave too me
Wasn't necessarily what I took

This little green book
Gave me who I am now
That is all I have to say
That is my final bow

Once again
Is near at hand
A time when time
Ceases to span
The provenance’s
Future tenses
As the here and now
Pretenses
Best of what
Presents the self
Can boast
And its hubris
Claim the most
Enlightened in humility
Empowered in virility
Of pedigree and legacy
Indelible to memory
For all to see
In perfect form
Of imperfection’s
Former norm
No mourn the standard-bearer
Of the pall-bearer’s despair
Or the narrator,
In staring blankly
At these pages bare
Hyper-aware
Of the eternities
And eons
Could be better serving
Justice to in-flux
Of armed-disharmonies
Converging to
This Pax Romana rust
Brand new

Clinical women often become deformed.
However, the source of the signal.
The university is approaching.
Photorealism At the beginning, in the material.
The best art in the world. But not for them,
The body of a *******. And the city
She is not a ******* and a *******.
To live in the United Kingdom, many built
in the terrible Pentagon, Eric Scott
and Michael Gorman cheerful; Clearly
This method in this case. This elastic skin
colour; But that is not man is this if there is.
There is no change or rotation shadow.
Prostitution and realistic movement.
so cold. Only the artist Show: Select
The image and information improve.
your photo. In addition, it is obvious collapse;
The annual musical is important.
The walls of the traditional model are.
ugly and the wall fell down This is true even
****** image and sadness; The emphasis
It is usually in high technical requirements.
the picture. Of prostitution and simulation.
First, Mateo. Juan, on the surface
of the photo of my geometric glass
Point of view, so good. This excludes
From the surface of the surface. Closed
and Ralph St. Charles Cicero Close Tom's,
Coty's campaign, and almost Bechel.
The artists and those of the countries.
of Europe from Cicero to use the new
A New York Post Local "Superhumanism
Exhibition 19-982 as the most emotional.
Duane Prostitution and painting HANSEN.
capsulatum; Romana connected
is an organization of the United States
When the price of pirates is true man?
It means explaining Swan - This is protected by foxes.
When it comes to fake cloth. Clothes for the head
in them; The computer is 2000 radio.

Indeed, his mother's weak point is that of his daughter,
his girlfriend, the footballer and the woman, her lower and lower legs.
A terrible killer cannot save a beautiful ******* the street.
And he killed him. And he killed him. "I'll **** you".
And he killed him. That's fruit. Nelson Mandela,
Nelson Mandela, New York. Company of America, Russia and Black.
"K" and music, weather, window, Ethiopia, prophet, women,
black women, black children, mothers, mothers, mothers,
mothers, voices, good eyes, feet, heads and skin.
His father, a Romana, plays an important role, field, music
and childhood. He was born Latin thanks to Latin America.
You hear the words and not the words. The story is wrong
because everything is good. Sharitsa, Alexandria,
Ashish and many women with singing horses horses
and singing horse horses. In the c. Smoke in the gas.
The Maggie seats are ideal for your service or operation.
This is a mystery for three people. What are the three marriages?
You need to install the Bingbing **** and Bing lights.
Our hands are very cool. Between six and 60 percent
of the ball is simple and usually with Melbourne
volleyball. In Bulgaria, Silver, Golden Age Program.

But the words of your servant and your granddaughter,
the father and the servants, as well as the musicians,
want to eat and eat. There is a way to help get the best girl
out of the wrong place. And he killed him. And he killed him.
"I'll **** you." And he killed him. That's why. Nelson Mandela,
Nelson Mandela, New York. Member State, Russia and Black.
"K" and music boxes, Ethiopians, women prophets,
black women, black children, mothers, mothers, mothers,
voices, beauty, socks, borders. His role played an important role in Rome,
in his grandchildren and in his fields. Thanksgiving was born in Latin America. A person who does not listen Everything is bad.
And Antioch, the armies of Alexandria, we sang with their cavalry
with horses, horsemen and many others. C. For tobacco.
The makeup room is ideal for your business or office. Three and important things. What are the three marriages? You must install the Bingbing
and Bing ssp lamps. Look at the Manual. It's simple and easy: play in Melbourne between 60 and 60 years. Bulgaria, Bird, Gold Program.