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Osvaldo Sauma Melancholy Sonnet .- Rubén Darío

Sunday Bolivar A

Brother, you who have the light, tell me mine.

'm like a blind man. I'm aimless groping.

on tempests and storms I

blind and crazy dream of harmony.

That's my bad. Dream. Poetry

iron shirt is one thousand tips bloody

I've been on the soul. Bloody thorns

drop the drops of my sadness.

And I go blind and mad, in this bitter world;

sometimes I think the road is very long,

and sometimes it is very short ...

And this hesitation of breath and dying,

full of penalties under which barely stand.

Do not you hear the drops of my sadness?

Aleyda Dedicated to my daughter and in memory of his recently deceased friend, the poet Udiel Francisco Ruiz (1977-2011) "Melancholy", sonnet both favorite. Melba

Note: The image was taken from intenet.

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Best Running Shoes Bad Back

The hero .- By Rabindranath Tagore

Mother, imagine that we travel, we go through a strange and dangerous country. I ride a horse blonde next to your palanquin. The sun sets it gets dark. Joradoghi the desert, gray and desolate stretches before us. The fear takes hold of you and think: 'Where are we? " But I say: 'Fear not, mother. " The land is fraught with thorns and crosses a narrow path. All herds have already returned to the stables of the people and the vast extent not seen any living thing. The darkness grows, the field and the sky cleared and we can not distinguish our way. suddenly call me and tell me your ear: 'What is that light, there, next to the shore? " You hear a terrible scream and then the shadows come running towards us. You will cuddle in your palanquin and invoke the gods. carriers, scared, hiding in the bushes. But I cry: 'Do not be afraid, mother, I'm here! " Armed with long sticks, hair in the wind, the bandits approaching. I warn: 'Stop, wicked! One more step and are dead! " His rages and screams are released upon us. You you take my hands and say, 'My son, I beg you, escape from them! " And I say, 'Mother, you'll see what I do. " then spurred my horse and galloped off. My sword and shield clashing noisily. The fight is so terrible mother who would die of terror if you could see it from your palanquin. Many flee, many more are butchered. Thou still and alone, no doubt thinking: 'My son will be dead already. " But I arrived, drenched in blood, and I say, 'Mother, the fight is over. " You descend from the palanquin, kiss me, and pressing it to your heart I say, 'What would become of me if my child had escorted me? " Every day thousand useless things happen. Why not be possible to have such an adventure? It would be like a fairy books. My brother would say, 'Is it possible? I always had for so little! " And the townspeople proclaim: 'How lucky mother to have her son by her side! " Rabindarnath Tagore (Calcutta, May 7, 1861 - Santiniketan, 1941) Note: The image was taken from the Internet. .

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