Disposable poetry

 Take me where the sun lays down his rays, where the mountain opens up for me, where the heavens smile and welcome all. I yearn for peace Take me where I can live out my days, where the endless sky becomes the sea, where savage summer yields to kind fall. and for silence Lead me on the last road 'til the end, and make this flesh dissolve into stars that the road may be forever bright. but not really...

 "there is no place for me on this cold world", I thought as one more lonely day began. As the hours faded away, I saw all of me sinking into stagnation... a voice then came to me, quite a loud howl saying I should go, and quickly I ran. and later, in a long moment of awe, I came upon a realization: this life, so cold, so long and so foul that can so thoroughly destroy a man holds a glimmer of hope within its maw: a sparkle, a twinkle of salvation... "there is a place for me here, on the road."

 Après avoir longuement traversé bien des routes et des chemins bons et pas ; après avoir visité des endroits où j'ai presque perdu toute ma santé, j'ai bel et bien compris que, finalement,  ni la paix ni la joie sont des cadeaux ; et même si j'entends le chant du corbeau, je tiendrai bon toute ma vie, carrément.

Peregrino, ¿a dónde vas? ¿Por qué haces este largo viaje? Caminante, ¿a dónde vas con tu morral como único equipaje? ¿Quizás no sabes quién te guía en este camino? Tal vez sea la fe. Tal vez no seas cristiano. Hace ya más de mil años que nació la gran aventura. Viajero, eres tú descendiente de quienes la imaginaron. Pasarás por regiones, ciudades, comunas y pueblos. Las piedras te contarán la historia del peregrinaje. Tendrás que cruzar ríos, montañas, los Pirineos. Ayer esa era la frontera. Ahora vas a escalar durante horas. Entonces llegarás a España. Sobre el Camino sufrirás como el emperador Carlomagno que también estuvo allí. Con los vascos cantarás, vino de La Rioja beberás. En Castilla te quemarás  y a Galicia llegarás. Y cuando solo, entre tanta gente, a la distancia veas la catedral del apóstol el camino nunca olvidarás.

  De poco sirve que como rey ocioso en este callado hogar, entre estas rocas estériles y atado a una esposa anciana, yo imparta leyes a cada uno de estos salvajes, avaros, perezosos, glotones e irrespetuosos. No puedo dejar de viajar. Voy a vivir todo lo que pueda. He disfrutado mucho en todo momento; he sufrido de todo, tanto con quienes me han amado y en soledad, en tierra firme y cuando entre fuertes corrientes las lluviosas Híades alteraban al calmo mar. Me he hecho famoso, pues andando siempre con un corazón ansioso es mucho lo que he visto y conocido: ciudades, tradiciones, climas, concejos, y gobiernos por mí mismo y honrado por todos, y el embriago del fragor de la batalla junto a mis pares entre los vientos de las lejanas planicies troyanas. Soy parte de todo cuanto he encontrado. Pero toda experiencia no es más que un portal a través del cual brilla ese mundo que no he visto y cuya frontera se desvanece siempre y cada vez que me muevo. ¡Cuán aburrido es detenerse, fijar u...

 Vivir, o no vivir. De eso se trata. ¿Será más noble padecer los ataques y embates de la bulliciosa fortuna, o enfrentar en armas una avalancha de dificultades y vencerlas? Morir, dormir… no más… y al dormir decir que terminan el sufrimiento y los mil dolores propios de la carne… ¡es un final tan deseable! ¡Morir! ¡Dormir! ¿Dormir? ¿Acaso soñar? Oh, ahí está el problema. Porque hay que pensar en lo que pueda llamarse «sueños» en aquel sopor de la muerte cuando hayamos dejado atrás esta frágil forma. Eso es lo que hace que esta vida tan larga sea tan dura. Pues, ¿quién soportaría las humillaciones y azotes del tiempo, la maldad del opresor, la insolencia del orgullo, la punzada del amor despreciado, la demora de la justicia, la burla del gobierno y el vil insulto que la paciencia tolera, si pudiera buscar liberación al filo de un simple puñal? ¿Quién quisiera llevar tantas cargas, aguantar y esforzarse bajo el peso de una vida abrumadora de no ser por el terror de algo después de la...

 found myself hiding in the streets again suddenly riding along a new road forcefully biding my time, or my life? how much longer? after eluding the twisted sickle I thought visiting you would warm my soul but my lingering hopes burned into ash... by your absence I believed seeing you would make me smile but ended missing your sweet, charming eyes. I hope in sleeping I find you again if you let me

It's 2002. She makes a joke at my expense. I feel happy. I feel   wanted . I feel   needed . For once, I do not feel like an outlier, like a footnote on my family's history. My friends look at me expecting a reaction, but I can only manage to glance in her direction trying to steal a flash from those determined eyes I have come to admire so much. I get nothing. I think she is as nervous as I am, but she does not show it. It's 2023. I am sitting alone in a small flat trying to recall the elusive feeling of 21 long years prior and, to my surprise and grand delight,  it is still here . It's 2002. The war that ravages the country feels closer to the cities now, and I am a member of the reserve army. There is a remote chance that I will be called upon to join the military. Fear runs through the community, and one day I find a letter in my grey backpack. It's from her. She has always been a better writer than I can ever hope to be, but this time I can feel her tremulous h...

 I stand beneath a cloudy morning sky staring silently into the abyss. A pair of stately wings prepares to fly above the storm, onto the charming bliss. The goose will soar into the great white north -though presently it suffers scorching heat- This foreign land will give me my way forth as hope and blood with toil and sweat shall meet.

  For the girls giggling next to me in the theatre: I know this film is supposed to be amusing and I truly am glad you should yet find it so; for hope is the grand privilege of youth, and you, oh, I know you still believe, I know you still trust through your sweet, juvenile, evocative laughter...   But through time and tears many lessons I have learned that I wish you would never need to understand. I wish that your joy sprung eternal from the Fount of Many Bounties. But, alas, youthful maidens, Disappointment will strike you, too, in dreams... in blood...

On this eve you have been taken away, and though we did not speak for far too long  the kindness you showed me many a day did carry me on and did make me strong. I recall your face when the first you were to recognise me after two long years: -two years then of joy but now of despair- your surprise, your smile, your embrace and tears! Your ship sailed to distant ports, as did mine, and only a silent farewell remains. You were a good friend, honest, true and fine; and now you are free from torments and pains.

  this came to me in a long and painful night It started as a spark; a random crash of two rocks. It then ignited a few wooden branches and weeds, burning timidly in the night. Later, it grew into logs piled on other logs burning softly together, finally warming a cold nocturnal heart. Then it became a passionate house fire that destroyed all that it found, a force of nature that consumed all what was and all what was meant to be. That gave way to a forest fire; a savage, uncontrolled, scorching inferno spouted by hell to prove it did not exist; a flaming monster that reached out of my heart set alight by her eyes and encircled heaven entire, bringing destruction to the divine and exploding the celestial vault into smithereens. The burning pieces of non-existent heaven dwindled to ashes that rained down on my life, obscuring her spectre and shaping the nightmare I had long dreaded to face, the same I knew was coming. The cinder incubus grew, unchecked, engulfing her with its horrid...

 Every time someone has a heart attack, doctors say a part of the organ dies. That's true: you can see the break in their eyes. But physicians cannot see every crack. Every day, despite the pain, people rise and go on living, seeking what they lack in dirges, in days grey and in nights black concealing their tears behind walls of ice.

 As I walked through a cloud of smoke today, surrounded by my sadness and my tears, a mem'ry came, unannounced, to my brain as many before itself: I saw you. I saw that smile that o'ertakes you with pride. You had to have done it, I realized. The toil is finished; the suffering done. Honour is your name today,  beloved . You may not believe it, but I'm happy. This double scotch I drink to your good health. I drink to all the days and all the nights you spent devoted to your hard labours. And, oh, how you worked! How you deserve this! But all I have for you,  love , is verses...

 In my dreams you keep returning as a spectre... in the dark... Just when I close my eyes, desolate and cold, you step in with a smile for these are familiar quarters that still hold your sigil    and torment me at my most vulnerable. So if my dreams are the battlefield we've left, then onward I will ride, in arms,  prepared to chase you out again. You may not hurt me any more as I cannot hurt you any more. Pain and hurt need blood and heart. and all there's left in you is poison.

 Speak, o spectre, and say whence thou hast come anew! And wherefore doth memory invoke thee? Say, how is thy name remember'd by those who laden with life yet remain? Is thy name on paper written? On stone engraved? On sand is it drawn or is it marked on flesh? How did those who People name themselves regard thee? Wert thy deeds worthy of celebration in voluntary song? Or didst thou build grand works of rock, yea, mausoleums, statues, churches, tombs? Perchance thy life elapsed serenely, as a breeze over the sea? Or tell me, o spirit, I beseech thee: if thou liveth still within the souls of younger, newer Peoples, and if their scars t'day bear thy name, how is this come to be? Wert thou loved during thy time? Wert thou feared whilst thou didst walk? Was thy life silent as rain? Or art thou revered today there where admiration dwells?

 I’ve often dreamt of becoming a ghost, A lonely phantom wand’ring this green earth; Fly without notice. Pass by without thought.   Dreamt of playing host To past hopes, that stealth Peruse fields long fought.   But, oh, how frail This hope of mine!   Lift now my sail! There's love to find!

 in the face of death hold the line when there is no hope hold the line when you are alone hold the line when fight becomes fate hold the line until your last breath hold the line

  I have been here before. These roads are familiar. I know these rocks, too, And these waterfalls, yes… No, please, no. Never more. All this is peculiar: Fully lacking virtue. My heart feels the distress. Oh, I know I did this. How sad to fire and miss!   Ah, this pitiful cave Where much blood once I left, Look! My clothes are still here, After so many years! Did you, accurséd place Know that I would return? Speak! What gave me away? How did I fall, again?

  I want not great fortune, Nor riches bathed in gold. There is no joy in coin, Platinum nor silver. For every fortune is Steeped high in the smashed skulls Of those poor dispossessed Whom cruel Fate discarded And cast beneath the heels Of those who themselves call The Children of Fortune. Shine often carries mould Which well with filth does join. As a serpent´s slither, Money doth corrupt this And that, leaving but hulls Of humanity´s best: Its genius, frustrated; Its compassion it kills… Yea, wealth doth spell downfall.

  Your face before my eyes Amidst a peaceful night. What used to be my vice; Some thing that once was right… Those orbs to whose entice I once gave all my might… Cruelty that beauty hides; Such beauty made life bright With shine that “never dies” ´til it ran from the fight. Just one roll of the dice And sadness was in sight…

  No, no light for me! Light blinds! I must see! For the brightest day Hides truth with its ray The narrow path shines And precepts defines While in the shadows Liberty hallows.

 La mañana del tres de julio de 1994, Nicolás dormía tranquilo. Había que ir a la iglesia, pero faltaban todavía más de dos horas antes de que hubiera que salir. Además, ¿qué otra cosa hace un niño de diez años un domingo por la mañana antes de ir al baño y comer lo que se le atraviese? Sin embargo, este domingo sería diferente. Es cierto también que Nicolás no vivía en un tiempo común. Durante toda su corta vida había vivido entre mujeres, sobreprotegido y medio ciego frente a lo que pasaba más allá del colegio, la iglesia y la casa. Estudiaba en un colegio militar masculino, así que las niñas para él eran solamente esos seres que miraban rayado, andaban en grupos y susurraban todo. "Refunfuñan", decía él. Para agregarle al mundo único de Nicolás, estaba ya acostumbrado a escuchar y ver las noticias. Era costumbre de su tía, como vino a saberse después. La tía también fumaba demasiado, como una chimenea. Nicolás la comparaba a una chimenea de las que había visto en televisió...