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Ileana Payamps Aug 2017
I am from VapoRub,
From Goya
And morisoñando.
I am from the traffic
And loud horns,
From the Caribbean heat,
And the city lights,
From the buildings
And the towers.
I am from the palm trees
And the coconut trees,
Dancing bachata
And merengue
In the beach,
From yaniqueque
Y plátano,
From tostones
And fish.
I am from Sunday gatherings
And loud family members,
From Jose, Maria, and Primos,
And the hardworking
Payamps clan.
I am from the
Madera’s baseball team,
From Canó, Sosa, y Ortiz,
From the long summer rides
To ***** Cana
And Samana’s beach.
From “work hard
Cause life is not easy”
And “family before friends.”
From Christianity
And Saturday morning sermons,
From God is good
And He brings joy.
I am from Santo Domingo
And Monción,
From Santiago
And Spanish ancestors,
From mangú con salami,
From rice and beans.
From the grandpa
Who owns the village
Surrounded by
Chickens, cows, and bulls,
From the business owner
And the well known uncles
In my hometown.
I am from the only flag
With a bible.
From the red, blue
And white.
From the most beautiful
Island in the Caribbean,
From Quisqueya y
Libertad.
I am from the
Dominican Republic,
The country that holds
The people I love and
Miss the most.
I am from the
Little Paris box
I keep next to my bed,
Filled with precious
Gifts and letters
That make me feel
A little closer
To them.
a little background
THE PROLOGUE. 1

Experience, though none authority                  authoritative texts
Were in this world, is right enough for me
To speak of woe that is in marriage:
For, lordings, since I twelve year was of age,
(Thanked be God that is etern on live),              lives eternally
Husbands at the church door have I had five,2
For I so often have y-wedded be,
And all were worthy men in their degree.
But me was told, not longe time gone is
That sithen* Christe went never but ones                          since
To wedding, in the Cane
of Galilee,                               Cana
That by that ilk
example taught he me,                            same
That I not wedded shoulde be but once.
Lo, hearken eke a sharp word for the *****,
                   occasion
Beside a welle Jesus, God and man,
Spake in reproof of the Samaritan:
"Thou hast y-had five husbandes," said he;
"And thilke
man, that now hath wedded thee,                       that
Is not thine husband:" 3 thus said he certain;
What that he meant thereby, I cannot sayn.
But that I aske, why the fifthe man
Was not husband to the Samaritan?
How many might she have in marriage?
Yet heard I never tellen *in mine age
                      in my life
Upon this number definitioun.
Men may divine, and glosen* up and down;                        comment
But well I wot, express without a lie,
God bade us for to wax and multiply;
That gentle text can I well understand.
Eke well I wot, he said, that mine husband
Should leave father and mother, and take to me;
But of no number mention made he,
Of bigamy or of octogamy;
Why then should men speak of it villainy?
     as if it were a disgrace

Lo here, the wise king Dan
Solomon,                           Lord 4
I trow that he had wives more than one;
As would to God it lawful were to me
To be refreshed half so oft as he!
What gift
of God had he for all his wives?     special favour, licence
No man hath such, that in this world alive is.
God wot, this noble king, *as to my wit,
              as I understand
The first night had many a merry fit
With each of them, so well was him on live.         so well he lived
Blessed be God that I have wedded five!
Welcome the sixth whenever that he shall.
For since I will not keep me chaste in all,
When mine husband is from the world y-gone,
Some Christian man shall wedde me anon.
For then th' apostle saith that I am free
To wed, a' God's half, where it liketh me.             on God's part
He saith, that to be wedded is no sin;
Better is to be wedded than to brin.                              burn
What recketh* me though folk say villainy                 care *evil
Of shrewed* Lamech, and his bigamy?                     impious, wicked
I wot well Abraham was a holy man,
And Jacob eke, as far as ev'r I can.
                              know
And each of them had wives more than two;
And many another holy man also.
Where can ye see, *in any manner age,
                   in any period
That highe God defended* marriage                           forbade 5
By word express? I pray you tell it me;
Or where commanded he virginity?
I wot as well as you, it is no dread,
                            doubt
Th' apostle, when he spake of maidenhead,
He said, that precept thereof had he none:
Men may counsel a woman to be one,
                              a maid
But counseling is no commandement;
He put it in our owen judgement.
For, hadde God commanded maidenhead,
Then had he ******
wedding out of dread;
           condemned *doubt
And certes, if there were no seed y-sow,                          sown
Virginity then whereof should it grow?
Paul durste not commanden, at the least,
A thing of which his Master gave no hest.                      command
The dart* is set up for virginity;                             goal 6
Catch whoso may, who runneth best let see.
But this word is not ta'en of every wight,
But there as* God will give it of his might.             except where
I wot well that th' apostle was a maid,
But natheless, although he wrote and said,
He would that every wight were such as he,
All is but counsel to virginity.
And, since to be a wife he gave me leave
Of indulgence, so is it no repreve                   *scandal, reproach
To wedde me, if that my make
should die,                 mate, husband
Without exception
of bigamy;                          charge, reproach
All were it* good no woman for to touch            though it might be
(He meant as in his bed or in his couch),
For peril is both fire and tow t'assemble
Ye know what this example may resemble.
This is all and some, he held virginity
More profit than wedding in frailty:
(Frailty clepe I, but if that he and she           frailty I call it,
Would lead their lives all in chastity),                         unless

I grant it well, I have of none envy
Who maidenhead prefer to bigamy;
It liketh them t' be clean in body and ghost;                     *soul
Of mine estate
I will not make a boast.                      condition

For, well ye know, a lord in his household
Hath not every vessel all of gold; 7
Some are of tree, and do their lord service.
God calleth folk to him in sundry wise,
And each one hath of God a proper gift,
Some this, some that, as liketh him to shift.
      appoint, distribute
Virginity is great perfection,
And continence eke with devotion:
But Christ, that of perfection is the well,
                   fountain
Bade not every wight he should go sell
All that he had, and give it to the poor,
And in such wise follow him and his lore:
                     doctrine
He spake to them that would live perfectly, --
And, lordings, by your leave, that am not I;
I will bestow the flower of mine age
In th' acts and in the fruits of marriage.
Tell me also, to what conclusion
                          end, purpose
Were members made of generation,
And of so perfect wise a wight
y-wrought?                        being
Trust me right well, they were not made for nought.
Glose whoso will, and say both up and down,
That they were made for the purgatioun
Of *****, and of other thinges smale,
And eke to know a female from a male:
And for none other cause? say ye no?
Experience wot well it is not so.
So that the clerkes
be not with me wroth,                     scholars
I say this, that they were made for both,
That is to say, *for office, and for ease
                 for duty and
Of engendrure, there we God not displease.                 for pleasure

Why should men elles in their bookes set,
That man shall yield unto his wife her debt?
Now wherewith should he make his payement,
If he us'd not his silly instrument?
Then were they made upon a creature
To purge *****, and eke for engendrure.
But I say not that every wight is hold,                        obliged
That hath such harness* as I to you told,                     equipment
To go and use them in engendrure;
Then should men take of chastity no cure.
                         care
Christ was a maid, and shapen
as a man,                      fashioned
And many a saint, since that this world began,
Yet ever liv'd in perfect chastity.
I will not vie
with no virginity.                              contend
Let them with bread of pured
wheat be fed,                    purified
And let us wives eat our barley bread.
And yet with barley bread, Mark tell us can,8
Our Lord Jesus refreshed many a man.
In such estate as God hath *cleped us,
                    called us to
I'll persevere, I am not precious,
                         over-dainty
In wifehood I will use mine instrument
As freely as my Maker hath it sent.
If I be dangerous
God give me sorrow;            sparing of my favours
Mine husband shall it have, both eve and morrow,
When that him list come forth and pay his debt.
A husband will I have, I *will no let,
         will bear no hindrance
Which shall be both my debtor and my thrall,                     *slave
And have his tribulation withal
Upon his flesh, while that I am his wife.
I have the power during all my life
Upon his proper body, and not he;
Right thus th' apostle told it unto me,
And bade our husbands for to love us well;
All this sentence me liketh every deal.
                           whit

Up start the Pardoner, and that anon;
"Now, Dame," quoth he, "by God and by Saint John,
Ye are a noble preacher in this case.
I was about to wed a wife, alas!
What? should I bie
it on my flesh so dear?                  suffer for
Yet had I lever
wed no wife this year."                         rather
"Abide,"
quoth she; "my tale is not begun             wait in patience
Nay, thou shalt drinken of another tun
Ere that I go, shall savour worse than ale.
And when that I have told thee forth my tale
Of tribulation in marriage,
Of which I am expert in all mine age,
(This is to say, myself hath been the whip),
Then mayest thou choose whether thou wilt sip
Of *thilke tunne,
that I now shall broach.                   that tun
Beware of it, ere thou too nigh approach,
For I shall tell examples more than ten:
Whoso will not beware by other men,
By him shall other men corrected be:
These same wordes writeth Ptolemy;
Read in his Almagest, and take it there."
"Dame, I would pray you, if your will it were,"
Saide this Pardoner, "as ye began,
Tell forth your tale, and spare for no man,
And teach us younge men of your practique."
"Gladly," quoth she, "since that it may you like.
But that I pray to all this company,
If that I speak after my fantasy,
To take nought agrief* what I may say;                         to heart
For mine intent is only for to play.

Now, Sirs, then will I tell you forth my tale.
As ever may I drinke wine or ale
I shall say sooth; the husbands that I had
Three of them were good, and two were bad
The three were goode men, and rich, and old
Unnethes mighte they the statute hold      they could with difficulty
In which that they were bounden unto me.                   obey the law
Yet wot well what I mean of this, pardie.
                       *by God
As God me help, I laugh when tha
Kathryn Heim Apr 2016
A marriage,
a miracle,
a story
to tell
of Christ
transforming
water from
the well.

His first miracle,
her gentle request,
wine was needed
for all of the guests.

He is still trasforming
in different ways,
and
miracles happen
everyday.
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Accidents and misfortunes crowding my life
choking out pleasures reserved for a lucky few.
Not realizing that they were there for me too, just to look for
passed by as I chose to look back, blinded to what could have been.

Running in circles skirting the truth
looking for lost moments, ticking into eternity.
My hope is in this new life that I’ve found
awakening the child I’d lost, now born again in you.

You’ve taught me to live, to look now for the simple and pure;
a glass of ***** Cana or a flock of cranes grazing on a hill.
Moving together in the rhythm of jazz
in the early morning sounds and light reflecting on you.

Your beautiful face, angelic in the morning light.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Como la historia del amor me aparta
De las sombras que empañan mi fortuna,
Yo de esa historia recogí esta carta
Que he leído a los rayos de la luna:

Yo soy una mujer muy caprichosa
Y que me juzgue a tu conciencia dejo,
Para poder saber si estoy hermosa
Recurro a la franqueza de mi espejo

Hoy, después que te vi por la mañana,
Al consultar mi espejo alegremente,
Como un hilo de plata vi una cana
Perdida entre los rizos de mi frente.

Abrí para arrancarla mis cabellos
Sintiendo en mi alma dolorosas luchas,
¡Y cuál fue mi sorpresa, al ver en ellos
Esa cana crecer con otras muchas!

¿Por qué se pone mi cabello cano?
¿Por qué está mi cabeza envejecida?
¿Por qué cubro mis flores tan temprano
Con las primeras nieves de la vida?

¡No lo sé! Yo soy tuya, yo te adoro
Con fe sagrada, con el alma entera;
Pero sin esperanza sufro y lloro...
¿Tiene también el llanto primavera?

Cada noche soñando un nuevo encanto
Vuelvo a la realidad desesperada;
Soy joven, es verdad, mas sufro tanto
Que está mi triste juventud cansada.

Cuando pienso en lo mucho que te quiero,
Y llego a imaginar que no me quieres,
Tiemblo de celos y de orgullo muero;
(Perdóname: así somos las mujeres).

He cortado con mano cuidadosa
Esos cabellos blancos que te envío:
Son las primeras nieves de una rosa
Que imaginabas llena de rocío.

Tú me has dicho: "De todos tus hechizos,
Lo que más me cautiva y enajena,
Es la negra cascada de tus rizos
Cayendo en torno a tu faz morena".

Y yo, que aprendo todo lo que dices,
Puesto que me haces tan feliz con ello,
He pasado mis horas tan felices
Mirando cuan rizado es mi cabello.

Mas hoy no elevo dolorosa queja,
Porque de ti no temo desengaños;
¡Mis canas te dirán que ya está vieja
Una mujer que cuenta veintiún años!

¿Serán, para tu amor, mis canas nieve?
Ni a imaginarlo en mis delirios llego.
¿Quién a negarme sin piedad se atreve
Que es una nieve que brotó del fuego?

¿Lo niegan los principios de la ciencia
Y una antítesis loca se parece?
Pues es una verdad de la experiencia:
Cabeza que se quema se emblanquece.

Amar con fuego y existir sin calma;
Soñar sin esperanza de ventura,
Dar todo el corazón, dar toda el alma
En un amor que es germen de amargura;

Soñar la dicha lleno de tristeza,
Sin dejar que sea tuya el hado impío,
Llena de blancas hebras mi cabeza,
Y trae una vejez: la del hastío.

Enemiga de necias presunciones
Cada cana que brota me la arranco,
Y aunque empañe tus gratas ilusiones
Te mando, ya lo ves, un rizo blanco.

¿Lo guardarás? Es prenda de alta estima,
Y es volcán este amor a que me entrego:
Tiene el volcán sus nieves en la cima,
Pero circula en sus entrañas fuego.
On this day we will set forth

The glory
The pleasure
Our love celebrated

Through thick
Through thin
Our love will never turn sour nor scorned

Through health
Through sickness
Our  hearts will grow fonder

I promise to make you happy
When you are blue

I promise to hold you dear
When you are hurt

I promise to be dear to your kindred heart

Making sure to fill our lives with magical moments
Taking the bad
Taking the good
Through our miraculous journey

That this day has set forth for us
Though it may be overbearing
To get through

Remember our love still grows strong
Daily Weekly Monthly
On this day we shall set forth
©Aiden L K Riverstone
D A Do Fleming Sep 2010
O tempo é escasso e o espaço, amplo.
O prazo é laço e engancha o pampo.
o BERRO é surdo sem algum alcance
pra que o ouvido mudo do Universo dance.

Galanteiam nebulosas em destino infante
e trazem, ao eterno, singular instante.
Cada transição traçada a que avance
é passo dado em falso a fortuito lance.

Aferir feridas de um pleno plano
levará o homem a estado insano:
a narcose de saber um objeto nulo.

Na movimentação estática do engano,
toda teoria traz na cura um dano
entoado na garganta que, portanto, engulo.


* bestia cupidissima rerum novarum  - animal ansiosíssimo por coisas novas.
Pampo - rebento tardio de cana de açucar: pampos de cana caiana (Dicionário UNESP do Português contemporâneo)
Princípio poético da Teoria da nulidade teórica ampla (em desenvolvimento)
caden Aug 2021
When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your flawless makeup

Instead I think of your eyes, the window to your soul.
I describe the love that flows through soft hazel gaze that only a mother can produce

When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your perfectly done hair

Instead I see you reading a novel on a hot summer day,
As if it were your true reality in that moment.
I see the power that literature holds

I describe your mesmerizing voice repeating the lines of Eloise in Paris to me,
I mention the soothing way in which you read the Velveteen Rabbit,
And I credit you for making me fall in love with words and the way they can make people feel.

When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your schooling history

Instead I picture you and I see a symphony around your soul that courses cannot teach
I see Mozart's Sonata No.11 and Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos
I see Monet’s Water Lilies, Veronese's Wedding at Cana and Michelangelo’s David

I describe the joy in your eyes when we saw the Sistine Chapel and the Champs-Élysées
I describe the vast knowledge and art that makes up your personal mosaic.

When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your professional accomplishments.

Instead I mention your ability to hold someone and make them feel loved
I picture the times you embraced me while I silently sobbed over circumstances that you tried to protect me from.
I picture the words that you gave me at just the right times
I see the comfortable silence you provided when I couldn't bear to hear words through the pain.

When I describe you to a stranger,
I do not mention your clothing or the way you dress

Instead I mention the way you clothe yourself in humility before God
I see the verses that you have sown into my heart since I was young
I speak of the way you clothe yourself with the armor of God
I remember the scriptures that you so carefully knitted on my heart

When I describe you to a stranger,

I describe you as
A woman after God’s own heart.
A woman who understands that beauty is vain but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised,
A woman who teaches wisdom and kindness and serves with joy,
A mother who clothes herself in strength and dignity and laughs without fear of the future,
A mother who encapsulates the love of Christ here on Earth.
I describe you as everything that I hope to become.
I wrote this for my beautiful mother. I’m hoping it receives attention as I am wanting to have it published with a collection of my other works. <3 enjoy
He ido a ver el parque de Lezama
en el atardecer de un día cualquiera,
y me he encontrado uno diferente
al que por tantos años conociera.

Era aquél un jardín ya carcomido
por lloviznas y líquenes y amores,
flexuoso de raíces y de lianas
y envenenado por extrañas flores.

Contraluces de manos vagarosas
de caricias visibles o furtivas.
Generaciones, ¡ay!, que en él buscaron
frondas podridas para bocas vivas.

Cuando la noche lo llenaba todo
y cuajaban en ella las parejas,
erguidas en recónditos senderos
o desmayadas en las altas rejas.

No está siquiera aquel jarrón de bronce
en que cierto crepúsculo dorado
pusimos los levísimos sombreros
y unos versos leímos de Machado.

"A ti, Guiomar, esta nostalgia mía..."
Y en la tarde agravada tu voz honda
estremecía la hoja de los árboles
y el cristal de la brisa y de la onda.

Era hora de estrella y media luna,
de pío agudo, de croar de rana,
de guardián gigantesco y solapado
y de visera en la pelambre cana.

Cada estatua era Venus palpitante,
cada palmera recta era el Oriente,
mientras afuera el tránsito zumbaba
su ventarrón de coches y de gente.

Cuando se entrecerraba la corola
sobre la dulce gota del estigma,
cuando se ahondaban como dos aljibes
en mí la ingenuidad y en ti el enigma.

Ni la vieja escalera de ladrillos
húmedos, desgastados y musgosos.
Todo es argamasa y pedregullo
y barnices espesos y olorosos.

Patricio, enhiesto parque de Lezama
cortado y recortado a mi deseo,
verdinegro por donde te mirase
salvo el halo de oro del Museo:

desde un bar arco iris te saludo
ahito de café y melancolía,
dejo en la silla próxima una rosa
y digo tu elegía y mi elegía.
selina Feb 28
while all the folks will be off beach-drinking
at ***** cana, or cartagena, or hiking through
a coast and helicoptering blindly into canyons,

i just want to be at home, cooking for you,
studying up new recipes, because i know you
pretend to like my chinese takes on western food

a little more than you actually do; you want me
to be happy, but my happiness stems from your
healing health and your returning appetite, so know:

a smile on your face and a happily-emptied plate
would beat the pride of reaching any himalayan peak
and warm my heart more than any southern sun or beach
a sister piece to "relativity (& related theories)"
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
.few people don't know, unless they read Sienkiewicz... but the Marienburg Castle at Malbork... was originally constructed from white, & ghostly grey brick... not red brick... the red bricklayers came with it being destroyed from the German erasing their shame at it being, claimed... the whole structure used to be a ghostly shaman color of fog... partly white, partly grey... but never... exactly... red brick...

did you know that the Teutonic Order
was the first to invigorate /
or rather instigate the primordial
concept of a... post office?
well... i guess somehow had to write
out the demise of the concept,
or be caught up in it, reaching
the 100m finish line.

those monks really invented /
invested / investigated
the premise of a post-office...
    shame, really,
          that the post-office is
lying on the death bed...
    and the only "thing" that cana
rekindle it is...
        a relapse into postcards...
which will never happen...
       just as hand writing will
collapse into:
   nothing more than a scrawly
stature of pseudo-literacy -
                              of a signature.
Ben Jun 2016
Randy was a roach
Of the american cockroach variety
He was a deep brown and had a sickly shine
To his wings and antennae
And he studied both of us
From a perch in our suitcase
In my girlfriend's East Harlem apartment
In the early hours of a sunday morning

"**** it! Get it out of the suitcase!"
My girlfriend yelled
Flailing her arms
As Randy reclined on our valuables
His antennae twitching

As in most crisis
I hesitated
And Randy burrowed into the suitcase
Past the underwear, collard shirts, and sunscreen

I dug in a frenzy
Rending my girlfriend's meticulous packing plan
And scattering clothes about
All in the name of meaningless destruction

But I couldn't find Randy
"He's probably in the collar of one of your shirts, or in a pair of my shoes"
My girlfriend speculated
And I started shaking the clothes wildly about the room
Wanting more than anything to extinguish Randy's life
To sterilize our newfound stowaways presence
But I never found him
And Randy boarded the plane with us to ***** Cana

While our plane painted dizzying contrails over the ocean
We speculated about Randy's
Most likely devious activities
"I bet he's eating the granola bars under my bikinis"
"I bet there is more than one in there"
"Maybe he's dead?"
"I bet he's laying eggs"
We both pondered over the fact that Randy could be Rhonda
And that we would open the suitcase to a scattering of near microscopic progeny
And we clutched each other in the cold, recycled air of the cabin

When we got to the room
Past all the tin shacks and open air bars
Where the locals sat in plastic lawn chairs
Staring at the tourist shuttles
That carted pale skin behind tinted windows
To decadently decorated rooms where the towels were folded into swans
We opened the bag to see if Randy
Had surfaced, died, or multiplied

But Randy was no where to be seen , a phantom
We unpacked everything under the utmost scrutiny
Not trusting any of the items we had packed so lovingly and repacked
Shaking cover ups and tee shirts like the wind shakes the leaves in autumn
But he never presented himself
And we saw none of his foul brood
We even unzipped the lining
But Randy had simply vanished
Evaporating into the humid, tropical air

I like to think that Randy is somewhere on the island still
That he has impregnated or has been impregnated
That he spends his days under the intense sun
And cottony wisps of clouds
Sipping Presidente
Sitting under an umbrella made of dried palm fronds
Happy to be away from the honking horns and crowded subways
Just like we were
Noche. Este viento vagabundo lleva
las alas entumidas
y heladas. El gran Andes
yergue al inmenso azul su blanca cima.
La nieve cae en copos,
sus rosas transparentes cristaliza;
en la ciudad, los delicados hombros
y gargantas se abrigan;
ruedan y van los coches,
suenan alegres pianos, el gas brilla;
y si no hay un fogón que le caliente,
el que es pobre tirita.
Yo estoy con mis radiantes ilusiones
y mis nostalgias íntimas,
junto a la chimenea
bien harta de tizones que crepitan.
Y me pongo a pensar: ¡Oh! ¡Si estuviese
ella, la de mis ansias infinitas,
la de mis sueños locos
y mis azules noches pensativas!
¿Cómo? Mirad:
                                  De la apacible estancia
en la extensión tranquila
vertería la lámpara reflejos
de luces opalinas.
Dentro, el amor que abrasa;
fuera, la noche fría;
el golpe de la lluvia en los cristales,
y el vendedor que grita
su monótona y triste melopea
a las glaciales brisas.
Dentro, la ronda de mis mil delirios,
las canciones de notas cristalinas,
unas manos que toquen mis cabellos,
un aliento que roce mis mejillas,
un perfume de amor, mil conmociones,
mil ardientes caricias;
ella y yo: los dos juntos, los dos solos;
la amada y el amado, ¡oh Poesía!
los besos de sus labios,
la música triunfante de mis rimas,
y en la negra y cercana chimenea
el tuero brillador que estalla en chispas.
¡Oh! ¡Bien haya el brasero
lleno de pedrería!
Topacios y carbunclos ,
rubíes y amatistas
en la ancha copa etrusca
repleta de ceniza.
Los lechos abrigados,
las almohadas mullidas,
las pieles de Astrakán, los besos cálidos
que dan las bocas húmedas y tibias.
¡Oh, viejo Invierno, salve!
puesto que traes con las nieves frígidas
el amor embriagante
y el vino del placer en tu mochila.
Sí, estaría a mi lado,
dándome sus sonrisas,
ella, la que hace falta a mis estrofas,
esa que mi cerebro se imagina;
la que, si estoy en sueños,
se acerca y me visita;
ella que, hermosa, tiene
una carne ideal, grandes pupilas,
algo del mármol, blanca luz de estrella;
nerviosa, sensitiva,
muestra el cuello gentil y delicado
de las Hebes antiguas;
bellos gestos de diosa,
tersos brazos de ninfa,
lustrosa cabellera
en la nuca encrespada y recogida
y ojeras que denuncian
ansias profundas y pasiones vivas.
¡Ah, por verla encarnada,
por gozar sus caricias,
por sentir en mis labios
los besos de su amor, diera la vida!
Entre tanto hace frío.
Yo contemplo las llamas que se agitan,
cantando alegres con sus lenguas de oro,
móviles, caprichosas e intranquilas,
en la negra y cercana chimenea
do el tuero brillador estalla en chispas.
Luego pienso en el coro
de las alegres liras.
En la copa labrada, el vino *****,
la copa hirviente en cuyos bordes brillan
con iris temblorosos y cambiantes
como un collar de prismas;
el vino ***** que la sangre enciende,
y pone el corazón con alegría,
y hace escribir a los poetas locos
sonetos áureos y flamantes silvas.
El Invierno es beodo.
Cuando soplan sus brisas,
brotan las viejas cubas
la sangre de las viñas.
Sí, yo pintara su cabeza cana
con corona de pámpanos guarnida.
El Invierno es galeoto,
porque en las noches frías
Paolo besa a Francesca
en la boca encendida,
mientras su sangre como fuego corre
y el corazón ardiendo le palpita.
-¡Oh crudo Invierno, salve!
puesto que traes con las nieves frígidas
el amor embriagante
y el vino del placer en tu mochila.
Ardor adolescente,
miradas y caricias;
cómo estaría trémula en mis brazos
la dulce amada mía,
dándome con sus ojos luz sagrada,
con su aroma de flor, savia divina.
En la alcoba la lámpara
derramando sus luces opalinas;
oyéndose tan sólo
suspiros, ecos, risas;
el ruido de los besos;
la música  triunfante de mis rimas,
y en la negra y cercana chimenea
el tuero brillador que estalla en chispas.
Dentro, el amor que abrasa;
fuera, la noche fría.
El puño labrador se aterciopela,
y en cruz en cada labio se aperfila.
Es fiesta! El ritmo del arado vuela;
y es un chantre de bronce cada esquila.
Afílase lo rudo. Habla escarcela...
En las venas indígenas rutila
un yaraví de sangre que se cuela
en nostalgias de sol por la pupila.
Las pallas, aquenando hondos suspiros,
como en raras estampas seculares,
enrosarian un símbolo en sus giros.
Luce él Apóstol en su trono, luego;
y es, entre inciensos, cirios y cantares,
el moderno dios-sol para el labriego.
Echa una cana al aire el indio triste.
Hacia el altar fulgente va el gentío.
El ojo del crepúsculo desiste
de ver quemado vivo el caserío. ,
La pastora de lana y llanque viste,
con pliegues de candor en su atavío;
y en su humildad de lana heroica y triste,
copo es su blanco corazón bravío.
Entre músicas, fuegos de bengala,
solfea un acordeónl Algún tendero
da su reclame al viento: "Nadie iguala!"
Las chispas al flotar lindas, graciosas,
son trigos de oro audaz que el chacarero
siembra en los cielos y en las nebulosas.
Madrugada. La chicha al fin revienta
en sollozos, lujurias, pugilatos;
entre olores de urea y de pimienta
traza un ebrio al andar mil garabatos.
"Mañana que me vaya..." se lamenta
un Romeo rural cantando a ratos.
Caldo madrugador hay ya de venta;
y brinca un ruido aperital de platos.
Van tres mujeres.. ., silba un golfo... Lejos
el río anda borracho y canta y llora
prehistorias de agua, tiempos viejos.
Y al sonar una caja de Tayanga,
como iniciando un huaino azul, remanga
sus pantorrillas de azafrán la Aurora.
Satsih Verma Nov 2016


Memories on edge
one after the other―
salted, dried and smoked.

On green sea―
in a sail boat.
You do not know, where to go.

Hot and humid night.
Half moon, sitting
on a royal palm.

2.

A violent sun
was rising. Knocking down
the unending music of night.

The purple flight
of fish, clams and *****,
overrides. Tomorrow they would be
on table and white sand in your eyes.

The waves, come one by one.
To die on the receding shore.
Your hands tremble, holding the sea.

3.

China rose. Evergreen.
You will find its glory
petal by petal
at every step.

On a tropical beach―
at sensual dawn.
You come out
to pick up the poems.

Love is the arrival of carnations.
Do you mind the nameless pain,
When you walk Matilda?

4.

Earth breaks here
into palms, like spread hands
and hibiscus blooms.

I find the red lips
on burning globes.
of honeysuckle shades―

the sand, sky and moon.
They will meet tonight
at beach for parting kisses.


5.

Something climbs your bones
like an invisible wave
of primeval lust.

A blood feel―
from the ****** of Duranta,
the secret of land's native instinct.

6.

It falls like a quivering leaf:
the sultry night.
A salty wind slaps and tickles.

Walking under the royal
palms, escorted by
lined cycads.

Full moon hangs
overhead, watching the sensual
dance of light and shadows.

7.

The absolute stillness,
hisses. A vicious assault.
Your hands fly to ward off the evil.

A savage storm
of whirling thoughts―
uprooting the dream of wholeness.

8.

I spread rose petals
on your frame.
You smell―
like a garden.

Around the moons
I will draw the Caribbean sea
with a roving eye.

The lush green, your body
of domes and hairless seeds.
Skin starts burning like a peach.

9.

The flames
now leap. Sabotaging the surging blood.
A subtle and delicate presence begins.

The ism has a silent
fall. You can hear the turbulence
before the poem is born.

10.

The age
unwraps you.
Listening to the sounds of sea.
You are ready to face the ageless.

Time takes its
pound of flesh.
You bleed in grass.

Wind smears the pages with dust.
You were writing―
in praise of absence.

And when the full moon
gives a call, you
become speechless.

I have lost my home
again.
Oblatum - Magnus Volumine

John is defined in the Gospel of him as the disciple whom Jesus loved (cf. Jn 13:23). Thanks to the special signs of predilection that Jesus showed him at very significant moments in his life, John was closely linked to the History of Salvation. The first sign that showed him the great affection of Jesus was that he was called to be his disciple along with Andrew, Peter's brother, through John the Baptist who baptized in the Jordan River and of whom they were already disciples.. In fact, as Jesus passed by, the Baptist introduced him to him as "the Lamb of God" and they immediately followed him. John was so impressed by his personal encounter with Jesus that he never forgot that it was around four in the afternoon that Jesus invited them to follow him (cf. Jn 1:35-41). The second sign of predilection was having been a direct witness of some events in the life of Jesus, which he later reworked in the fourth gospel, in a theological way very different from the synoptic gospels (cf. Jn 21:24). And the third moment in which Jesus himself made him feel his friendship and his very particular brotherhood was when Jesus, about to give up his spirit (cf. Jn 19:30), wanted to associate it in a privileged way with the mystery of the Incarnation, expressly confiding it to his mother: "here is your son"; and expressly instructing his mother: "here is your mother." (cf. Jn 19:26-27).

The sources from which the data on John's life as an apostle, as an evangelist and as "adopted son" of Mary have been extracted do not always coincide. Some sources are more convergent and others are more dubious or apocryphal. From the gospels we know that together with his brother James - who will also be an apostle - the two were fishermen originally from Galilee, from an area of Lake Tiberias, and that together they were nicknamed "the sons of thunder" (cf. Mark 3:17). ). His father was Zebedee and his mother Salome. We find John in the narrow circle of the apostles who accompanied Jesus when he performed some of the most important "signs" (cf. Jn 2:11) of his progressive revelation as a type of Messiah very different from the one that the people of Israel was expected (Lk 9, 54-55). In fact, when Jesus resurrected Jairus' daughter (cf. Lk 8:51), when he was transfigured on Mount Tabor (cf. Lk 9:28), and during the agony in Gethsemane (cf. Mk 14:33), Jesus tried to make them understand that they had to transform their mentality linked to hope into a violent Messiah, similar to Elijah because, on the other hand, he was the beloved Son of the Father (cf. Lk 9:35), he was the Messiah come from the heaven to communicate divine life in abundance (cf. Jn 10:10), and that he was also going to suffer rejection and injustice from the religious leaders of his people (cf. Mt 16:21). In the Gospel of John, Jesus appears as the Teacher who also tries, in vain, to make the Jews understand the paradoxical logic of the Kingdom of God (cf. Jn 8, 13-59). His disciples, on his behalf, are invited to be born again (cf. Jn 3:1-21) to worship the Father in Spirit and Truth (cf. Jn 4:23-24); Jesus prays for them so that they remain united by divine Love (cf. Jn 17:21) and that they are fed by the Bread of Life (cf. Jn 6:35).

During the Last Supper, John had leaned on Jesus' chest and asked him: Lord, who is the one who is going to betray you? (cf. Jn 21:20). John was the only one of the apostles who accompanied Jesus to the foot of the Cross with Mary (cf. Jn 19, 26-27). John was the first to believe the announcement of the resurrection of Jesus made by Mary Magdalene (cf. Mt 28, 8): he ran quickly to the empty tomb and let Peter enter first to respect his precedence (cf. Jn 20, 1-8). Tradition adds that some years later he moved with Mary to Ephesus, from where he evangelized Asia Minor. It also appears that he suffered persecution from Domitian and that he was banished to the island of Patmos. Finally, thanks to the advent of Nerva as emperor, he (96-98) returned to Ephesus to finish his days there as an ultracentenarian, around the year 104.

The Gospel attributed to John was named after Origen. It has also been called the "Spiritual Gospel" or "Gospel of the Logos." His style and literary genre are full of "signs", symbols and figures that should not be interpreted literally. In the prologue of his gospel, John uses refined theological language to show how at the beginning of the New creation, in the New beginning the divine "Logos" already pre-existed; logos meaning the eternal creative Word of the Father, which was later translated into Latin as "Verbum". In the prologue of the fourth gospel Jesus is presented as the "Divine Word", the "Light of life" and "the pre-existing Wisdom of God" (cf. Jn 1:1-18). This gospel invites us to accept, through a faith full of amazement and gratitude, the surprising revelation that the Word of God, which no one had seen, became flesh and has made his home among his people. (cf. Jn 1:14). For this reason, the word "believe" is repeated almost 100 times, because God wants all men to be saved (cf. 1Tim 2:4) and to have abundant life through faith in Jesus Christ, God made flesh (cf. Jn 11, 25).

The Gospel of John also presents us in two very emblematic episodes the identity of Mary and the special relationship of John as her "adopted son" to her: at the wedding at Cana and at Calvary. In the narration of the sign of the water transformed into the new Wine during the wedding at Cana, Mary is shown to us as the powerful intercessor who anticipates the hour of Jesus' revelation to his People (cf. Jn 2:1- 12). On Calvary, at the moment of the glorification of Christ, Mary is presented as the Woman who is transformed into the New Eve or Mother of the disciples of her Son (cf. Jn 19:25-27). If we consider the close filial relationship between John and Mary, it is not difficult to imagine that the revelation of the figure of the Messiah in the Gospel of John has also been nourished by the direct testimony of Mary, since she, better than anyone else, in her last years of loneliness, he collected in his heart and in his memories the "signs", the "signs" and the words of life of Jesus. It is therefore conceivable that the unique experiences that she preserved in her memory, she later shared with the disciples of Jesus, and in particular with John. Therefore, it can be considered that Mary herself also progressively welcomed and interpreted in faith the revelation that the Son of her womb was at the same time the eternal Son of the Father, (cf. Jn 10:30), the only Bread. of life (cf. Jn 6:34), the Light of the world (cf. Jn 8:12), the Door (cf. Jn 10:7), the Good Shepherd (cf. Jn 10:11), the Resurrection and life (cf. Jn 11:24), the true Vine (cf. Jn 15:1) and the Way, the Truth and the Life (cf. Jn 14:6).

The three "letters" are attributed to the tradition of the disciples of John, which also have the flavor of brief homilies. The Apocalypse is a canonical book, recognized as inspired, that was born in the environments of the churches of the Johannine tradition that suffered the attacks of Gnostic doctrines. This, which is the last book of the Bible, uses a literary genre similar to that of some prophetic books of the Old Testament, such as the book of Daniel (cf. Dan 7), Ezekiel or Zechariah. The word apocalypse is the transcription of a Greek term that means revelation and not destruction, as is sometimes thought. John addresses seven letters to the seven churches (cf. Rev 1-3) to transmit to us, through very fascinating characters and symbols, a very concrete message of hope in which the slain Lamb (cf. Rev 5:12), i.e., Christ the Savior will triumph over all persecutions and oppositions of the forces of evil to the Kingdom of God and will make all things new. This will happen when God will establish his Kingdom of justice, love and peace at the end of time. In this book it is shown, with numerous and suggestive symbols, such as the seven seals (cf. Rev 6-8, 1), the seven trumpets (cf. Rev 8, 6-11, 19), the seven angels with the seven bowls (cf. Rev 15, 5-16, 21), the tiring path and the struggle that believers of all times have to face so that one day the building of the New Jerusalem will be carried out (cf. Rev 21-22), today we would say the Civilization of Love, brotherhood and care for life, when Jesus, the Alpha and Omega (cf. Rev 22:13), returns at the end of time. In this sense, the Apocalypse is also a prophetic book that interprets God's action in history, ensuring that the faithful and truthful Witness (cf. Rev 3:14) will return soon (cf. Rev 22:20) and will definitively conquer. to evil, pain, and death (cf. Rev 22:1-5).


Dedicavit

This manuscript is dedicated to Sauter Bernardino Edmundo Carreño Troncoso “ Primum Coniugem Alexandri Magnis ” of the first of the Gamelion of Dionysius of Leneo, to his Adelphos of Etrestles of Kalavrita, to Alexander III of Macedonia, known as Alexander the Great (July 21, 356 BC - June 10 or 11, 323 BC), Leonidas of Epirus, Lysimachus of Acarnania, Aristotle, Bucephalus, of the sixth of Hecatombeon, the month in which the Macedonians called him with the paelative Loios, the same day as the temple of Diana in Ephesus was burned; As Hegesias of Magnesia makes occasion for a presumption, Cassander, Ptolemy, and Hephaestion would become his lifelong companions and generals in his army. Callisthenes, another friend, was Aristotle's nephew. Dedicated to the dignity of Raeder of Kalymnos; son of Etrestles of Kalavrita, especially to Saint John the Apostle, distinguished relatives of the Transverse Valleys of Horcodndising and Sudpichi. Finally to my parents Luccaca and Bernardolipo Monarchs of Horcondising. And all the characters who will live eternally in this colossal Magnus Volumine. “Gratias Ago Tibi Propter Heroismum Tuum Vernarth, Et Doce Nos Viam Messiae” Thank you for your heroism Vernarth, and teaching us the way of the Messiah!

“I must tell you of my great admiration for my steed Alikantus, with which I will come to visit you soon, also to Kanti who have been a great precursor to take you to Athens, Thessaly, Delphi and Lefkandi. You can see that Bucephalus has joined our fight; where the “Sons of Iaveh, have eyes like a flame of fire or Aish, and feet like to go burnishing the chaff of bronze towards Patmos”, which will instigate you for the contrition of Thyatira, under the trick of my Rabbi Saint John the Apostle”


Thyatira

City rebuilt at the beginning of the 3rd century BC. E.C. by Seleucus Nicátor, one of Alexander the Great's generals. It was located about 60 km from the Aegean coast, on the banks of a tributary of the Gediz (ancient Hermos River), in the western Asia Minor. The Christian congregation of Thyatira received a message written by the apostle John as revealed to them by the Lord Jesus Christ. (Revelation 1:11) “which said: I am the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last. Write in a book what you see, and send it to the seven churches that are in Asia: to Ephesus, Smyrna, Pergamum, Thyatira, Sardis, Philadelphia and Laodicea.

In this regard, the Lord declared in a reproving tone: “You tolerate that woman Jezebel, who calls herself a prophetess, and she teaches and leads my slaves astray to commit fornication and eat things sacrificed to idols.” This “woman” was probably named Jezebel because of her wicked behavior similar to that of Ahab's wife and her stubborn refusal to repent. However, it appears that only a minority of the members of the Thyatira congregation approved of this Jezebel influence, as the message continues to address “the rest of you who are in Thyatira, to all who do not have this teaching, to the very same ones who did not come to know the 'deep things of Satan'." (Revelation 2:18-29).

“ Children of Iaveh, you have “Eyes like a flame of fire or Aish, and feet like burnishing the chaff of bronze” toward Patmos that has freed me from your Xorki, how to say and what not to say to you; that my voice has stammered, making me feel that once I flee, I must adhere to the Eternal fire of the Mayim, children of Iaveh, the Mayim of Hydor and saint of water, the Windmill and its sad Myloi, fall on my face ”


Magnus Volumine I    


The Vernarth's intensification of this prosopography as Prosopography Magistri Militum Strategos Typology; he has used the raffle of a History it was not known but it is Vernarth now introduces in Historiography as an auxiliary. The methodological fragment could be torn apart from its screens of a mind enslaved to having to worship a cycle that condemns it to surrender to its loved ones leaving it at the same time to be sectored from a condemnation, to prostrate itself to an Eternal Life its images nor Masterful Words that would have to distinguish the parasciences from subdividing their corporality into thousands of Othónes or Screens, in order to be able to sustain themselves from others that do not compose the knowledge of what is not History; but rather that what happens typical of prosopography allows to obtain visibility regarding the different sectors of society, and the possibilities of their members to access positions of a present that never leaves the power of the Space of a Strategoi, as Time-Space at levels of superior Intelligence subject to mandates of divine Power that oscillates in a mental power of the Militum that coexists with the Community of the Strategos, creating the entire Quantum Band of the antiquity as an omnipresent being par excellence. When its ****** envelope is reflected in its Purgation, it will trigger a presence that governs itself and leads in the trend of a "Duoverse that will only be built in its Unique unity"... given the trend of all crowds that bustle beyond the mass of their Villas or Cities that they inhabit, creating sensations and an unreal genetic world even that amalgamates a large number of generations that only increases its demography based on the autarkic mandate of a history that goes back for not knowing what to imagine of the past and of a future without present that is sustained in a Spiritual Intelligence.

The sociological mutations will be circular, and the retrograde since the collective of images will exceed everything that is sustained on a material floor and therefore it denies that what develops in an empty heart will be a specialized material of a periodicity, that does not spare New Universes that a pillar or support be added that tends to calligraphy better where imagery could prevail all the limits of common language. The grammar of ancient Greece will defend periods that are neither static nor finite, leaving free space for words that are engulfed by vast seas of stagnant bibliographical records never known never written nor destined for a secular record. The Submythology Potential is provided by the entire Belt that surrounds from South America to the Mediterranean as an infinite cord of Eternity to re-hold itself in a matriarchy in the societies of the past to recognize, that femininity is the real genesis of research from where a frequent human origin proceeds, so this it is the transcended in the Universality that transcends in the investigation of the sphere of Unknown History; pretending its ligament of prosopography, and the vivifying instance of Submythology as a unifying entity to summarize the condition of Strategos/Magister Militum we have taken into consideration the situation of our utter information in this existing prosopography works. Parapsychology is subject to a dimension closely linked to non-reflection to even the Primordial Quantum to governs, and governs everything just as this Magnus Volumeni I tries to express the independence of all literary expression if it is about Vernarth, rather it is a documentary space.

Afterward six years of knowing and introducing myself to the area of   Technology, and the Science in the Tourism industry, I made my presentation at Macromedia University, Berlin-Germany. Through this university management I had the option of presenting my concept and avant-garde projects, which condescended me to get to know the E-Tourism Perspectives area of the University of Svizzera Italian-Ticino. This allowed me to meet and join an independent study challenge with the slogan of deriving a full range of analysis, and dedicated study Heritage Sites of UNESCO. All thanks to the agreement that consecrated me at the Pantheon-Sorbonne Université, specifically Maria Gravari-Barbas, Directore de la Chaire UNESCO, Culture, Tourisme / Lorenzo Cantoni, professor at USI Universitá della Svizzera Italiana.

The university has had here in South America, in Chile an intrepid collaborator who has tried to interpret the postulates of the Sciences of Humanity exposing the nature of preserving, and keep investigating everything in the lost history of Europe, which has great significance for Culture that has branched out through the Tourism Technology, and its Digital transformation for this purpose of understanding public life in dissimilar fields that are still hidden in intangible archives, which deduce important material of study in areas of Science, Philosophy, History, Politics, Geography, Jurisprudence that would add to the world of the conservation of the ancestral peoples with all its courageous identity of the Prosopography, and the archaeological demography.

The United Nations Educational, Scientific & Cultural Organization, known for short, as UNESCO is a specialized agency of the United Nations. It was founded on November 16, 1945 with the aim of contributing to peace and security in the world through education, science, culture and communications. The constitution signed that day entered into force on November 4, 1946 ratified by twenty countries. In 1958 its main headquarters were inaugurated, in the VII district of Paris. Its general director is Audrey Azoulay the specialization and search for Culture, Education and Science is a way of contributing to humanity, peacefully granting security through the entire International community for this reason we believe that this work fulfills that prerogative narrowing organically, as been always it is here with the multidimensional epic narrative that is broken down with the prose, and parapsychology other than is a field closely linked to the intrinsic link of all the treasure that has been transmitted for thousands of years, leaving before our expectation what its ruins and works have wanted to demonstrate with their laudable dedication foundations, and expansion of multiple Sites in their musings that have traveled the history of diction of the science of culture, information, communication to create knowledge that this still remains with our reality of society that has the pattern of explosive generation of the current one. One of Vernarth's is the most important premises to create the roots of systematic knowledge, that is to say to provide platforms for their family trees, prosopography and the art of writing Submythological Prose whose the objective tends to occupy the expanded universal literature that has advanced for thousands of years on the other hand, Submythology is free of format cancels many aspects of the temporary format, and creates a relationship link between the academic and the secular attracting infinities of Cultures, historical landmarks, hybridity of languages, and above all merging and re-transforming existences of the post-Classical period; where the source and personal question does not daunt the distances of the inheritable that distanced us by geological-Historical periods, rather it makes the viability of an unexplored field up to now as Vernarth is the granting a hierarchical international value that will retransmit knowledge and skills.

In this way, agglutinating ourselves in those interstices that are not visible, qualifyable or quantifiable, only have to materialize when patrimonial beings are chosen by others who are already hereditary of an industrious will it occupies the supports of a platform of earthly inheritance, and later disseminate it throughout different sectors of the field of knowledge and the research, connoting that there are many variables that could help us interpret the foundations of the UNESCO heritage, today are far removed from communities that want to invest time in inquiring more deeply about them. For this reason, Central and Eastern Europe is at the forefront of generating multi-channels that can ensure the treatment of technological routes or flourishing that want to be found again, such as the Qhapac Ñan, or perhaps the Jacobean Route, perhaps the Route from Patmos to Judah pointing to Vernarth by demonstrating that hindsight could be perfective when visualizing facts that were not witnessed or written as they should be, VG the return to Galilee of Saint John the Apostle in the Hegira to Judah, relegated to Greece by Emperor Domitian. The amendment of such a well-deserved return confirms the wait for an immortal being in the Eclectic Portal for three months, who will mean the ordinary that rises up from the phenomenal investing in roles that many times, as indicated by the dogma of the baptistery indicating that we can be saints and apostles to preserve the patrimonies to educate and retransmit values to follow.

Vernarth Trilogy II at its end, is reiterated in deliberating that this work never ends because each chapter of Paraps, inaugurates a new infinite regressive dimension as it is in the case of Poielipsis; as it is a liquefaction of the parameter of Poiere, and the inverted Apocalypse to make changes after personalities that manage to impact the successive episodes of alteration of Life periods, as in this case Vernarth when he was legitimized to assist Gaugamela by the god Spílaiaus to make the support to Alexander the Great not only for winning the battles but for saving and winning the souls of the fallen Hoplites, generating in them an idyllic prose that promotes and sublimates the possession of the principles of an Apocalypse, that suggests protecting those who should believe without pain of what will await them later for an indefinite death. The Souls of Trouvere will stand out with the bulwark of enthronement of the state of energy that would mobilize Charles the Great by taking him to the platform of conquest of Europe crowned as emperor by Pope Leo III taking the lessons strongly rooted, and letters that would subscribe the cheers where nothing dies in the center of its own fear, because that is where the edge of a sword loses its value that it cannot use the other as an arbitrary neologism of only reigning without the sacrifice that every regime bets on, including the crown when Charlemagne assumed his great legacy at twenty years after expiring later at seventy-two. This is where fears die, not being able to hope or convalesce in concepts of Energeia that vitally moved from the similar aspect to Alexander the Great in the same even numeral but thirty-two, and letters that would be signed by cheers where nothing dies in the center of its own fear because that is where the edge of a sword loses its value that it cannot use the other as an arbitrary neologism of only reigning without the sacrifice that every regime bets on, even the crown when Charlemagne assumed his great legacy at twenty after later expiring at seventy-two.

In another topic, Vernarth after witnessing Stratonice's intermission decides to run at her bare feet for those who banish with their needs on the parental scale of their range, succeeded by Energeia's need for the impudent sense of being enraptured in possibilities, here insulting also the principle of quantum science with the spin of subatomic particles, alembicated in the timeless particles that could leave out of the nucleus the proportion of rotation of time that could be found, and rooting of memories in rectilinear lines of the imperturbable Hellenic mental axis. One could also amend here all the licentious action of Seleucus by Stratonice when she splits the gross threshold of her son Antiochus, and Antigonus I Monophthalmos referring to the father Stratonice of Macedonia for never marrying her to Seleucus. All this generates the Epistle addressed to Vernarth to solve the strident and impalpable of the warlike Diadocos that greatly affected the female descendants, confining them to their domestic avatars in disloyal empires, where these vilifications devastate the imperial partiality through the centuries of an oppressive strength, and disagreement in their moral wrongs. From this quality the coordinate of the Souls of Trouvere that remains in the present, always allying themselves in saviors of oppressed and abandoned peoples who strive in the neologism of the Epsilon or Vernarth's fifth dimension, and not restrict themselves as Aristotle affirms, investigating the entity towards a mono-meaning in this causal of such an alpha that says the paradoxical demonstrating diversity of optics. Prior to this diatribe, Vernarth decides his naturalness that he decides to promote the Souls that are part of both topics to alleviate the potentialities of the acts that are apprehended in the light of genius that coexists with both. What he judged us in the unfolding of his entity and will deliver it by divine intelligence so as not to reduce the free power of the Epsilon that was extracted in the welcoming the presence of Stratonice on the (substitute scale of Vernarth's relativistic emotions). There are few seconds that can be extended more from a selective argument of tendencies in ex-sheets that could be attributed to dimensions of the period of Trouvere's souls, lacking stillness in simulated biological environments.

The dynamics of this Poielípsis is to adorn the Voielípsis as an analogous addition of quantum causality and timeless Christianity, since it supports a conjugate mix deified by Saint Thomas Aquinas heading towards the mainstay in the mega absorption of Christian Aristotelian ideals. The souls will be residents of the indeterminate spiritual mechanics to put effects of the incredulous versatility on themselves, in sub-aquatic depths that coexist with the geological structure of the cavern of Saint John Apostle more than sub-earthly concomitance under the same axial of geological sustaining coordinate. Namely; they will live together while the temple is established except three hundred, and eight meters from its antipode in the underwater base of Prophytis Ilías.

The upholstery of the Pithya Herophile attacks the subtending of the flying buttress that was supported by the cavities of the volcanic rocks of Patmos, indicating its agreement with the Souls due to the disoriented cognitive dissonance that was generating paradigms, which tracked the stones that formulated Aquarian sounds in their dominant tonality due to the minuscule machine of light, more distant in the incommensurability that evaded its eclipsed in the resplendent major note that became monarchical due to the hypotenuse of the rectangle in three subdominant angles. This means that the Sybille was in the high point of observing her premonitions towards the creation that was born from another end to end in the recycling of creation in the dim light of clarity of the destinations that were going to present themselves as a song of remembrance of the Poielipsis, venturing the new restart or attempt of the Delphic oracular. The songs remain in the spell, and in the banal desires that would harm a mortal that will expand to the hypotenuse or line of the sentence that marked a step impelling in the misgivings and forgiveness of the banner of risk. Santiago of Compostela was going to Stratonice with his inclinations, like a geometric racconto subduing the fears that slip through the veil of the dogma of the arch where no philosophy can look higher if it is not allowed, typical of vegetating or freeing oneself from what revives in fears that do not shed light on eternal life, perhaps of a the Matematikoi himself who doubts an Ad finitas basis, and who finds out without the limits leading Pythagoras to the ground handcuffed from Crotona, always ignorant of the linguistic power that urges to rewind the spheres that still weave crossed angles placing themselves in trial, and error when considering a non-renewable past the soul of the Poielípsis adopted a Pythagorean conception in the halters of livid legions of Orpheus, as if it were his consecrated to the hypogeum where the level was to stir the embankment that will merge with Zefian's Arrows.

A diminutive atonal music possible existed in the molecules, and in trigonometric periods in which the measures were united in time as a stationary whole vivifying a great variety of fractional numbers as souls of the same numeral that finally appear to be Pythagorean digits. Vernarth's military of Phalanxes in this epic made the crucial oblique moment to break Dario's troops like a dozen Elegy that was going to re-flower what he knew of his already sub-treated destinations, other than will only be souls tired of keeping themselves alive in their morbidity, and the dissociated causal of immortality that will distance itself from the prohibited abstinences in libertarian exercises of any counting that ponders on the coming etymology of the Vita Pythagorae on the couch of joy, and serving his doctrine that saves himself that will save us in the Messiah for those who in their souls do not have the sacrifice of a lamb that feeds, nor a base that goes ahead in the centuries grazing what no one was capable of. In the second triad of Apollo the oracle of Apollo with the Souls that reveal Charles the Great to be his favorite for the protectorate of Compostela, and his spiritual regency the invitation to Charlemagne breaks out from Aachen after 33 consecutive years in the sword dispute stating that the Saxons never complied with the treaties and signed surrenders. Charlemagne put himself at the head of his army on several occasions to fight with his sword against the Saxon danger, also entrusting the troops to the counts when other matters required his presence in the second concave wasteland, and the straight ascending of the Trouvere Souls crowning Charlemagne emperor of Rome and Francos chosen by Leo III, predicted by the Apostle Santiago in defensive pontifical struggles, and defenders of Christianity. In this paradigm there is a deceased seep through of an elusive world that was joining from here in the vein of Poielípsis for the sake of some eras that came from the mutes, and anonymity that augured to link them to know within their endless intrinsically organic movement, also as a diligent active cosmos of the discovery of the Jacobean route longing to be a better region than the Dodecanese merged by the twelve apostles, and now the brother of the son of Zebedee; Santiago, brother of Saint John the Apostle, ennobled in the 778 AD tying it to Hispania. In ****** and constant fighting, Charlemagne besieged the Saxons, he entered Hispania crossing the Pyrenees as an anticipation of the aforementioned the Jacobean Route, everything worsened in this way witnessing the subjugated places in the jurisdictions of the Trouvers who were Pythagoric elite of soldiers who they had be bilocated in this Christian Era, preceded by this perfidious Basque in the woods subsisting separated right here from the progenitors of the Trouvers, who claimed to be the strongest to pursue them to Pamplona with Charlemagne. Everyone was escaping from Islam, and not a few Christians resented this affront in the dynamics that will reveal the Songs of the French Deed.

This previous paragraph exhibits the eloquence of how the interlining that Vernarth had to create a Brotherhood Code called "Raedus Codex" for the high nomination polished in the Infant Raeder as a twitch of the sacrifice of his young soul, who fought battles in pursuit of defenses pure and free with the freshly grown grass of the spring of the world in Genesis. The Souls in Trilogy III will be the compendium of the Codices that will enter the Wind Tunnel what will be governed by the warm Meltemi wind, and swirled by the winds of Eolonymy, ascending all those who should be admitted and not purging those in between who they enjoyed a pre-Christian heritage citing Pythagorean antiquity behind those who must have dressed it up as a Codex Calixtinus. From this arrangement Charlemagne will drive souls with antiphons, the Apostle Santiago will come lacerated to meet his brother Saint John the Apostle, his barge will be abandoned in the Strait of Gibraltar and then arrive at Santiago of Compostela from here he will make tributes of name to ascend to Patmos. Just as the end of Vernarth's Trilogy II is faithfully transcribed, also Stratonice, the Hexagonal Primogeniture, Alexander the Great, King David Elias, Malachi, Isaiah and all the acquirer flashed in Raeder and his Pelican Petrobus, as self-sustaining defenders of the Infantile Fantasies that they continued in this complex work after a finding that fed them up in Vernarth as well as everything related to their release and investiture to say that all roads lead to Patmos, as Locus Sanctus of all the shepherds who heal their sheep that do not belong to others that are populated with white souls, for the good of other shells 308 meters below the Prophytis Ilias with the consent of Stratonice who would be arriving in Macedonia where the pass of the centuries they would tell them about the Jacobean Route instructed in confrontations, and concordances with the airons of the Trouvere protected by a rectangle of three Pythagorean subdominant angles in dissipated darkness of the golden astrological ambiguity of Theoskepasti of the meridian of the Kimolos. He will go away saying explicitly that the darkness became visible mists where there was nothing to hide from Psathi Roadstead in Kimolos, until reaching the Agia or the Chapel of Theoskepasti that would become visible for the phenomenon of Faith, alluding to a portentous desire that everything was tied to the same sense of compression of which the image or sound of the creation at times to became invisible but precisely understandable, as it was when imagining palpable the reality of what allows the human eye to feel for an instant that everything is real imperceptible, more present of all what can be detected by superior senses more than humans, giving way next to the Raedus Codex more present of all what can be detected by superior senses more than humans.

From Ios or Nios, bordering on Psathi, the Trilogy is unleashed when the association of all the spaced Cyclades of Vernarth will come to every equinox to shine the careful nap of the villagers of the Cyclades, close to the torpor of Thira. It will raise each Hoplite that from the point of Nios drags them with its abandoned body that could never receive the roads that led to Chora in infinitesimal distances and in white spots of all the Cycladic ghosts, who try to exalt themselves and assimilate to the villagers of Psathi.

According to Plutarch, the name Ios or Nios is believed to derive from the ancient Greek word for the violets "Ία" (Ia) because they were commonly found on the island, and is the most accepted etymology. It is also postulated that the name is derived from the Phoenician word iion, which means, "pile of stones". It was called "Φοινίκη" (Phiniki) named after the Phoenicians in the 3rd century when the island joined the League of Islanders it was probably temporarily called Arsinoe after the wife of Ptolemy II. Today the inhabitants of the Cycladic Islands call Nio Island a name derived from the Byzantine era. The name Little Malta, found in traveler's texts during Ottoman rule, is related to the permanent presence of pirates on the island of Latin-script languages.
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¡Oh tú, que inadvertido peregrinas
de osado monte cumbres desdeñosas,
que igualmente vecinas
tienen a las estrellas sospechosas,
o ya confuso vayas
buscando el Cielo, que robustas hayas
te esconden en las hojas,
o la alma aprisionada de congojas
alivies y consueles,
o con el vario pensamiento vueles
delante de esta peña tosca y dura,
que de naturaleza aborrecida
envidia de aquel prado la hermosura:
detén el paso y tu camino olvida,
y el duro intento, que te arrastra, deja,
mientras vivo escarmiento te aconseja!
En la que oscura ves, cueva espantosa,
sepulcro de los tiempos que han pasado,
mi espíritu reposa,
dentro en mi propio cuerpo sepultado,
pues mis bienes perdidos
sólo han dejado en mí fuego y gemidos,
victorias de aquel ceño
que, con la muerte, me libró del sueño
de bienes de la tierra,
y gozo blanda paz tras dura guerra,
hurtado para siempre a la grandeza,
al envidioso polvo Cortesano,
al inicuo poder de la riqueza,
al lisonjero adulador tirano.
¡Dichoso yo, que fuera de este abismo,
vivo me soy sepulcro de mí mismo!
Estas mojadas, nunca enjutas ropas,
estas no escarmentadas y deshechas
velas, proas y popas,
estos hierros molestos, estas flechas,
estos lazos y redes
que me visten de miedo las paredes,
lamentables despojos,
desprecio del naufragio de mis ojos,
recuerdos despreciados,
son, para más dolor bienes pasados.
Fue tiempo que me vio, quien hoy me llora,
burlar de la verdad y de escarmiento,
y ya, quiérelo Dios, llegó la hora,
que debo mi discurso a mi tormento:
ved cómo y cuán en breve el gusto acaba,
pues suspira por mí quien me envidiaba.
Aun a la muerte vine por rodeos,
que se hace de rogar, o da sus veces
a mis propios deseos;
mas ya que son mis desengaños jueces,
aquí solo conmigo
la angosta senda de los sabios sigo,
donde gloriosamente
desprecio la ambición de lo presente.
No lloro lo pasado,
ni lo que ha de venir me da cuidado,
y mi loca esperanza siempre verde,
que sobre el pensamiento voló ufana,
de puro vieja aquí su color pierde,
y blanca puede estar de puro cana.
Aquí, del primer hombre despojado,
descanso ya de andar de mí cargado.
Estos que han de beber, fresnos hojosos,
la roja sangre de la dura guerra;
estos olmos hermosos,
a quien esposa vid abraza y cierra
de la sed de los días,
guardan con sombras las corrientes frías;
y en esta dura sierra,
los agradecimientos de la tierra,
con mi labor cansada,
me entretienen la vida fatigada.
Orfeo del aire el Ruiseñor parece,
y ramillete músico el jilguero;
consuelo aquél en su dolor me ofrece;
éste, a mi mal, se muestra lisonjero;
duermo, por cama, en este suelo duro,
si menos blando sueño, más seguro.
No solicito el mar con remo y vela,
ni temo al Turco la ambición armada;
no en larga centinela,
al sueño inobediente, con pagada
sangre y salud vendida,
soy, por un pobre sueldo, mi homicida;
ni a fortuna me entrego,
con la codicia y la esperanza ciego,
por acabar diligente,
los peligros precisos del Oriente;
no de mi gula amenazada vive
la Fénix en Arabia temerosa,
ni a ultraje de mis leños apercibe
el mar su inobediencia peligrosa:
vivo como hombre, que viviendo muero
por desembarazar el día postrero.
Llenos de paz serena mis sentidos,
y la Corte del alma sosegada,
sujetos y vencidos
apetitos de la ley desordenada,
por límite a mis penas
aguardo que desate de mis venas
la muerte, prevenida
la alma que anudada está en la vida,
disimulando horrores
a esta prisión de miedos y dolores,
a este polvo soberbio y presumido,
ambiciosa ceniza, sepultura
portátil que conmigo la he traído,
sin dejarme contra hora segura.
Nací muriendo, y he vivido ciego,
y nunca al cabo de mi muerte llego.
Tú, pues, oh caminante que me escuchas,
si pretendes salir con la victoria
del monstruo con quien luchas,
harás que se adelante tu memoria
a recibir la muerte,
que oscura y muda viene a deshacerte.
No hagas de otro caso,
pues se huye la vida paso a paso;
y en mentidos placeres
muriendo naces, y viviendo mueres.
Cánsate ya, oh mortal, de fatigarte
en adquirir riquezas y tesoro,
que últimamente el tiempo ha de heredarte,
y al fin te dejarán la plata y oro:
vive para ti solo, si pudieres,
pues sólo para ti, si mueres, mueres.
En la tranquila casa donde la tía vive
Todo evoca el recuerdo del tiempo que pasó:
La sirvienta ya cana y el patio con su aljibe,
Y los cuadros y espejos que un siglo deslustró.

El salón aun conserva los tapices de antaño,
Do ninfas y pastores van danzando un minué:
Y en sus ojos parece brillar el fuego extraño
De amores de otro tiempo, tiempo feliz que fue.

Del clavicordio antiguo, que en un rincón reposa,
A veces un suspiro se alza y huye al azar,
Como un eco de tiempos lejanos, cuando hermosa
Tocaba ella romanzas de Glück y de Mozart.

Un armario de sándalo luce en la oscura estancia...
¡Cuántas reliquias guarda, tesoros de su amor!
Cartas, retratos, pomos que respiran fragancia...
¡Parece que de un siglo se aspirara el olor!

Entre aquellos recuerdos de ternura infinita
Que hay entre las gavetas, vese un libro, y en él
Hace ya sesenta años duerme una flor marchita...
Es el libro Zaíra, y es la flor un clavel.

Con el libro, en los días del estío radiante,
A la ventana se hace rodar en su sillón,
¿Es el sol lo que anima y enciende su semblante?...
¿Por qué con fuerza siente latir el corazón?

Sobre el clavel marchito la blanca frente inclina,
Pues teme que al tocarlo se pueda deshojar,
Y en su mente un recuerdo canta canción divina,
Mientras las ayes cantan en el vetusto alar.

Piensa cuando el fragante clavel recién cortado,
En las hojas del libro guardó un amigo fiel,
Y humedecen sus lágrimas el libro siempre amado
En donde sesenta años ha dormido el clavel.
Paseábase el rey moro - por la ciudad de Granada
desde la puerta de Elvira - hasta la de Vivarrambla.
                -¡Ay de mi Alhama!-Cartas le fueron venidas - que Alhama era ganada.
Las cartas echó en el fuego - y al mensajero matara,
                -¡Ay de mi Alhama!-Descabalga de una mula, - y en un caballo cabalga;
por el Zacatín arriba - subido se había al Alhambra.
               -¡Ay de mi Alhama!-Como en el Alhambra estuvo, - al mismo punto mandaba
que se toquen sus trompetas, - sus añafiles de plata.
                -¡Ay de mi Alhama!-Y que las cajas de guerra - apriesa toquen el arma,
porque lo oigan sus moros, - los de la vega y Granada.
                -¡Ay de mi Alhama!-Los moros que el son oyeron - que al sangriento Marte llama,
uno a uno y dos a dos - juntado se ha gran batalla.
                -¡Ay de mi Alhama!-Allí fabló un moro viejo, - de esta manera fablara:
-¿Para qué nos llamas, rey, - para qué es esta llamada?
                -¡Ay de mi Alhama!--Habéis de saber, amigos, - una nueva desdichada:
que cristianos de braveza - ya nos han ganado Alhama.
               -¡Ay de mi Alhama!-Allí fabló un alfaquí - de barba crecida y cana:
-Bien se te emplea, buen rey, - buen rey, bien se te empleara.
                -¡Ay de mi Alhama!-Mataste los Bencerrajes, - que eran la flor de Granada,
cogiste los tornadizos - de Córdoba la nombrada.
               -¡Ay de mi Alhama!-Por eso mereces, rey, - una pena muy doblada:
que te pierdas tú y el reino, - y aquí se pierda Granada.
                -¡Ay de mi Alhama!-
Allá en las horas más dulces
De mi fugitiva infancia,
Sirvióme de cuidadora
Una mujer muy anciana,
Con su rostro todo arrugas,
Su cabeza toda canas
Y su corazón tranquilo
Todo bondad y esperanzas.

De noche junto a mi lecho
Mil historias me contaba
De geniecillos y ninfas,
De trasgos y de fantasmas.

¡Pobrecilla! ¡cuántas veces
En estas noches amargas
En que repaso tristezas
En mi alcoba solitaria,
Al oír que de la torre
Vuelan en lentas parvadas
Las mismas horas que entonces
Pasé a su lado tan gratas,
He pensado en ella y visto
Llegar su sombra a mi estancia
Pretendiendo como en antes
Secar con cuentos mis lágrimas!

En cierta vez, caí enfermo,
La fiebre me devoraba,
Y en mi delirio quería
Para volar tener alas.
«Dámelas tú»: -grité altivo-
«Tú, nunca me niegas nada»:
-«Es verdad, nada te niego,

»Pero no sufras, ten calma,
Las alas que Dios te ha dado
Las tiene tu ángel de guarda;
Esta noche se las pido
Y te las daré mañana».

Nunca le faltó manera
De responder a mis ansias,
Y siempre al verme llorando,
Con la paciencia más santa,
Me dijo tales ternuras
Que aun me conmueven el alma.
Ella, que al velar mi sueño
De puntillas caminaba,
Y porque rumor ninguno
A mis oídos llegara
Iba a sosegar el péndulo
De un viejo reloj de sala;
Ella, que jamás hubiera
Permitido a gente extraña
Lanzar un débil suspiro
A dos pasos de mi cama;
Que en balcones y rendijas
Cortaba al aire la entrada
Y por no causarme susto
Rezaba siempre en voz baja;
Una noche fue a mi lecho
Alegre y entusiasmada
Diciéndome: -¡Ven, despierta,
Ya es hora... no tardes... anda!

Sobrecogido de miedo
Yo le pregunté: ¿Qué pasa?
-Ya lo sabrás cuando escuches
El vuelo de las campanas,
El tronar de los petardos
Y el disparo de las salvas-.

Abrigado hasta los ojos
Salí con la pobre anciana,
Y un sueño del paraíso
Me fingió lo que miraba.
Desde las enhiestas torres
A las humildes ventanas,
Lo mismo en extensas calles
Que en las más estrechas plazas,
Faroles y gallardetes,
Banderolas y oriflamas
Con los hermosos colores
De la bandera de Iguala.
Y al escuchar tantos gritos,
Tantos himnos, tantas dianas,
El rumor de los repiques
Y el estallar de las salvas,
En brazos de mi niñera
Lloré sin saber la causa.
-Lloras de placer-, me dijo
Esta es una fiesta santa,
La sola fiesta que alegra
Mi corazón y mis canas.
Hoy es quince de setiembre,
Y en esta noche sagrada,
Hace cuarenta y cuatro años,
Si mi memoria no es mala,
Un cura humilde en Dolores
Hizo nacer a la Patria.
Cuando era yo jovencita
Mi padre, que en paz descansa
Me traia de la mano
En esta noche a la plaza
Para repetir con todos
Los que aquí gozan y cantan,
El grito de independencia
Que repercute en el alma;
Mi padre, mi pobre padre,
Fue soldado de Galeana;
Pero mira... allí está el héroe
Alcé mis ojos con ansia
Y vi un inmenso retrato
Entre lucientes guirnaldas
Bañado por los reflejos
De las luces de Bengala.

Un rostro apacible y dulce,
Una frente limpia y ancha,
Una mirada de apóstol,
Una cabeza muy cana...
¡Era Hidalgo, el Padre Hidalgo,
El salvador de la Patria!

¿Lo ves? me dijo temblando
De regocijo la anciana...
-Sí, le respondí, sintiendo
No sé qué dentro del alma,
Y entonces a un mismo impulso
Con las manos enlazadas,
Nos pusimos de rodillas
Llenos los ojos de lágrimas.
CharlesC Jan 2013
the bride and groom
unseen
prepare to unite
two become one
in joyful celebration..

might we ask
what came before
this place and time..?
an earlier chapter
of everyone's story
is told with wine..

when those barrels
of water transform
one becomes two..
old Adam alone
becomes Adam with Eve
our birthing story
unfolds again..

this split for creation
a delivery dramatic
all with accompanying
complaint and pain..
stands now a
reminder from Cana
of our separation..
with some news
of joy's return...
Qué dulce, si lloviera de repente...
No sé por qué, porque tú estás lejana,
pero en la soledad de esta mañana
hay algo de tu amor que no está ausente.

Y yo sonrío, extraño adolescente
de ojos cansados y cabeza cana,
yo, que aún puedo asomarme a la ventana
y ver la luna que no ve la gente...

Ah, sí, qué dulcemente llovería
con ese sol, para olvidar un poco
mi prematura gran pasión tardía...

Y yo cierro los párpados huraños
pensando en ti, yo, extravagante y loco
adolescente de cuarenta años.
Estando yo en la mi choza   pintando la mi cayada,
las cabrillas altas iban   y la luna rebajada;
mal barruntan las ovejas,   no paran en la majada.
Vide venir siete lobos   por una oscura cañada.
Venían echando suertes   cuál entrará a la majada;
le tocó a una loba vieja,   patituerta, cana y parda,
que tenía los colmillos   como ***** de navaja.
Dio tres vueltas al redil   y no pudo sacar nada;
a la otra  vuelta que dio,   sacó la borrega blanca,
hija de la oveja churra,   nieta de la orejisana,
la que tenían mis amos   para el domingo de Pascua.
-¡Aquí, mis siete cachorros,   aquí, perra trujillana,
aquí, perro el de los hierros,   a correr la loba parda!
Si me cobráis la borrega,   cenaréis leche y hogaza;
y si no me la cobráis,   cenaréis de mi cayada.
Los perros tras de la loba   las uñas se esmigajaban;
siete leguas la corrieron   por unas sierras muy agrias.
Al subir un cotarrito   la loba ya va cansada:
-Tomad, perros, la borrega,   sana y buena como estaba.
-No queremos la borrega,   de tu boca alobadada,
que queremos tu pelleja   pa' el pastor una zamarra;
el rabo para correas,   para atacarse las bragas;
de la cabeza un zurrón,   para meter las cucharas;
las tripas para vihuelas   para que bailen las damas.
He empezado cien veces este poema cruel,
cien veces lo he dejado morir en el papel,
pero siempre renace bajo las tachaduras
con los ojos malignos, con las manos oscuras.

Me despierta en las noches como un duende perverso,
como una gota de agua, brotando verso a verso
me persigue en las calles, me golpea el oído,
y ahora estoy escribiéndolo para ver si lo olvido.

Es para ti el poema. Y es un poema cruel.
Por ciertas cosas tuyas que iré diciendo en él,
por todas esas cosas que duran un momento,
que pasan y se olvidan, como el amor y el viento.

Sin embargo, la culpa no fue tuya ni mía,
fue un viento de hojas secas que soplaba aquel día,
pero en la pesadumbre de un año y otro año,
te escribo este poema temiendo hacerte daño,
y, al pensar en las novias que se quedan solteras,
casi preferiría que nunca lo leyeras…

Ya ves que no te acuso. Ya ves que no me quejo,
y si es cruel mi poema, más cruel será tu espejo,
tu espejo, el alto espejo, que fue el único amigo
que conoció tus tardes de ir a pasear conmigo,
el único que siempre te decía que sí,
y el único que supo si lloraste por mí…

Tu espejo que en la gloría que no logró tu amante,
duplicó tantas veces tu desnudez triunfante,
y sabía el secreto del final de tu sonrisa,
en los viejos domingos de vestirte sin prisa…

Y tu amigo el espejo fue un amigo lejano
cuando tu primavera se convirtió en verano,
al reflejar tus ojos de mujer sin cariño
y tus labios resecos de no besar a un niño.

Y el amigo lejano fue testigo inoportuno
que vio pasar tus días sin amor, uno a uno,
ya con tu lento paso de mujer olvidada
y una lluvia de otoño lloviendo en la mirada.

Ah, el otoño, el otoño de la mujer bonita
que es la viuda de un hombre que no acudió a la cita.
Ver secos los rosales bajo un cielo inclemente,
mientras crecen las rosas en la acera de enfrente…

Y así fue que el espejo se empañó una mañana
con tu primera arruga, con tu primera cana,
y, al opacarse el brillo de seda de tu piel,
ya no te desvestiste nunca más frente a él.

Ah, qué triste ceniza donde nunca ardió nada
con una fulgurante y ardiente llamarada!
Sí, cuántas hojas secas, cuánto tiempo perdido
para siempre en la sombra, más allá del olvido!

Comprender de repente que se ha vivido en vano,
cuando un como de espuma se evapora en la mano,
y aprender, en las noches de no dormir siquiera,
que la lluvia no sabe llover de otra manera…

Ah, pobre amada mía: ya tu boca está triste
de frases que has callado, de besos que no diste,
y tu vida es inútil, aunque tú no lo digas,
como el pozo sin agua o el surco sin espigas.

Eso es todo, adorada. Yo también estoy viejo,
viejo de no olvidarte, viejo como tu espejo.
Y, dolorosamente, más piadoso que él,
termino aquí los versos de mi poema cruel...
Steve Page Jul 2016
In the beginning, John revealed the light
and said, "Let men repent."
And John's Aunt Mary saw that was good.
-
And John declared to the crowds, "Behold
Sin is taken away by the Lamb of God."
And there was water
and over the water there was the Spirit
hovering;
heaven tore down, and Mary saw
that this was God.
And God was well pleased.
-
Then
Jesus called Andrew
Andrew called Simon
Jesus called Simon, Peter.
And there was evening and there was morning, a very full First Day.
-
Jesus called, "Follow me, Philip".
Philip saw the Law and the Prophets fulfilled.
Philip called Nathaniel
and after a bout of doubt
and a lesson routed in a fig tree
Nathaniel came to see
a teacher and his God and his King.
-
And there was faith
and the promise of a great adventure.
More than enough for the Second Day.
-
-
There was a wedding in Cana
and Mary nudged her son:
'The wine has finished
This - is - not - good.'
And Jesus said, 'Mum. Not now'.
-
And Mary said
'Listen to your mother.'
-
And Jesus sighed.
-
And Mary told the servants,
"Do whatever he tells you."
-
Then Jesus saw that it was no use to argue.
And he said, "let there be water".
And they rolled across the stone jars in front of him.
-
And Jesus said, "let there be wine".
And it was so - very - good.
-
And Mary smiled to herself,
thinking how Joseph would have loved this,
and whispered to Jesus:
'This just the start you know.'
And he did,
and it was.
-
And there was a Mother's faith
and there were gallons of glorious wine.
And Mary kept on smiling, so proud of her son
and of this start of his new-vintage Kingdom
with this original third day, rolled-stone, miracle.
-
And there was a party,
and singing
and there was much laughter,
and the Son danced
with his mother through the night.
-
There was evening and there was morning,
a Fine Third Day.
With thanks to Sam Isaacson for th original idea.
John 2:1 "On the third day a wedding took place at Cana in Galilee. Jesus’ mother was there,"
prior to passing thru ******, buck naked bare
this grandson of Aaron, the sole heir –
   foreshortened to Sol Aire
evinced (as shown via ultra sound),

   which at birth became crystal clear,
   an obsessive compulsive prone
   human being, endear
ringly cute as a baby monkey possessed fear
some countenance tipping the scales needled gear

greater or lesser than seven pounds
   (minus or plus a few ounces)
   with a mass of dreaklocked hair,
otherwise a gangly sack of many a lovely bone,
   whereat obstetricians
   could not help himself but jeer

thus upon exiting birth cana;
   found him twirling loose
   ***** follicular fibers accord
ding to medical records,
   a combination of his being bored

(with a really lee super strong arm penchant)
   to sport dreadlocks, tough as hemp cord
an anomaly, which no app could com pare,
   boot nonetheless highly adored

resembling inimitable indestructible filaments,
   when taut could lift off the ground a board
dillow, which no reference manual could address
even topnotch experts queried, could not explain

   outrageous constituent rare
lee if never seen before, though still insured,
a novel boot nada so critical freak of nature ma lord
hirsute component part in a triple tier moored
substantial pressure upon the head,

entwining, looping, spilling somehow
   interweaving umbilical cord
into a mass of whirled wide webbed wear suitable for
four seasons, which bamboozled,

grew like Kudzu into
   an immense globular mass galore
('bout the size of Rhose Island) after one year ****
more, and wove in part from stem cell threads, nor
ceased proliferating after birth placenta
   accrued intact and immediately put in cold store

room, a by very peculiar product
   tinged with strands of blond hair
evoking how lioness would  roar
coccooning, contriving,
   and conveying this tiny dude

   into a self concocted
   hermetically sealed giant spore
miniature mummy, who without doubt
   looked like a lady bug hide entombment
   able to survive thermonuclear war
   as a minor subsequent repercussion

the downy side understood, impeterable forest
filched countless growing years, without jest
ting, when figurative messed
hair em scare em bedlam reigned as a supreme nest
sans shrieking obsessed invisible hoodlums
   broke free their electric kool aid acid test

from maximum security solitary confinement in vest  
ment for naught (busting andirons weighing down
  with reinforced steel trapdoor cladding
   didst not bar compulsive
   banshee like imps of thee pervert,
   but merely slow down

   miniscule limbs emulated a hitch hiker thumb
   upon will could assume the Alaska Bull Worm sized
   Albatross shaped achorage)
unsinkable (short term)
   screaming, rebelling, quaking,
atomic sized banshee beastie boys
   et cetera with fiery zest.
Nourrissez votre cœur du feu des charités,
Filles du Fils de l'homme, aux yeux pleins de clartés.
Aimez celle qu'un peuple appelle politesse.
Avant Notre-Seigneur, savoir vivre, qu'était-ce ?
Quelque chose au dehors, mais au fond, presque rien.
Etre civilisé, c'est bien ; poli, très bien ;
La politesse, fleur de l'homme charitable,
Règle notre attitude et rit à notre table,
Et donne un sens exquis aux choses du repas.
Science qui s'apprend, et qui ne s'apprend pas :
Code intime et profond, né dans la quiétude
Du cloître, et dont le monde, après, fit son étude.
L'âme où passa Jésus toujours en garde un pli,
Et c'est encor rester chrétien qu'être poli,
La politesse est reine et fait son doux royaume
Des cœurs purs, c'est un lis royal qui les embaume !
Non celle qui se montre en chapeaux élégants,
Bien qu'un homme se lise aux couleurs de ses gants,
Ni celle qui fatigue, ou bien qui complimente,
Obligée à se taire à moins qu'elle ne mente :
Mais celle-là qui règne avec simplicité,
Qui sait servir le miel pur de la vérité ;
Qui veut laisser chacun ou chacune à sa place,
Qui calme les transports, comme elle rompt la glace.
Parmi les charités, si légères au sol
Qu'elles foulent si peu, que l'on dirait un vol
Timide, à fleur déterre, ou d'ange ou d'hirondelle ;
Au nom des tout petits qui soupent sans chandelle
Sous les arbres, les yeux dans leurs cheveux trop longs,
Et viennent d'Italie avec leurs violons ;
Du vieux joueur de flûte, aux mèches toutes grises,
Et du pauvre, à genoux sur le seuil des églises,
Qui marmotte une antienne ou qui froisse les grains
Du rosaire, à la fête où vont les pèlerins ;
Parmi les charités, porteuses d'escarcelles,
D'un vers reconnaissant je veux célébrer celle
Qui passe en écoutant les plaintes des roseaux,
Et qui donne aux petits comme on donne aux oiseaux !
Fais ton miel admirable, ô reine des abeilles,
Charité, donne encor tes jours, ton cœur, tes veilles ;
Jésus multiplia les poissons et les pains.
Voyez, dans ce palais, dont les plafonds sont peints,
Où les lustres ont plus de branches que les arbres,
Où le peuple des sphinx taillés au cœur des marbres
Garde la cour sonore et les vastes paliers,
Château plein de frontons, d'urnes et de piliers,
Cette royale entant toute belle, qui foule,
Comme un jardin fleuri, l'éloge de la foule !
Eh bien, la charité qui lui parle à mi-voix
Saura lui retirer les bagues de ses doigts,
La perle éclose au coin de son oreille en flamme,
Sa chevelure où rit la gloire de la femme,
Sa chambre où le soleil allonge dans la paix
Sa large griffe d'or sur les tapis épais,
Ses miroirs éclatants, les servantes accortes,
Ce vestibule altier, plein de dessus de portes
Où des gens, dont le vent chiffonne le manteau,
Sont poudrés par Boucher et fardés par Watteau,
Et l'œil de ces bergers diseurs de douces choses,
Les grands vases de fleurs, où Sèvre a peint les roses !
Ses pieds si délicats chaussés de gros souliers,
Sa taille consacrée à d'humbles tabliers,
Sous sa coiffe de tulle et d'épingles légères,
L'enfant ira, parmi les âmes étrangères,
Fermer les yeux des morts, coudre le drap fatal,
Ou, sous les crucifix des murs de l'hôpital,
Au chevet d'un mourant dont la bouche blasphème,
Pour lui dire : « Je suis votre sœur qui vous aime ! »
Cette charité-là se nomme amour divin,
Elle enivre les cœurs, plus forte que le vin.
Père des charités, dont le Père pardonne,
Jésus, ô doux Jésus, pour qu'enfin l'on se donne
À vous, dont on tient l'âme et le cœur que l'on a,
Vous qui changiez en vin l'eau claire de Cana
Qui chantait en entrant sonore au col des vases,
Changez la boue en or dans nos cœurs lourds de vases.
Vous qui rendiez la vue à ceux dont les bâtons
Tâtent le pied des murs, nous marchons à tâtons,
Et nous sommes des sourds, et la pierre est pareille
À nous. Maître, mettez le doigt sur notre oreille !
Vous, dont l'ordre, au soleil qui sur le peuple luit,
Tirait Lazare blanc des brunies de la nuit,
Seigneur, ressuscitez aussi nos cœurs de roche,
S'il est vrai, ô Seigneur, que votre règne approche !
Esta luz de Sevilla... Es el palacio
donde nací, con su rumor de fuente.
Mi padre, en su despacho. -La alta frente,
la breve mosca, y el bigote lacio-.

Mi padre, aún joven. Lee, escribe, hojea
sus libros y medita. Se levanta;
va hacia la puerta del jardín. Pasea.
A veces habla solo, a veces canta.

Sus grandes ojos de mirar inquieto
ahora vagar parecen, sin objeto
donde puedan posar, en el vacío.

Ya escapan de su ayer a su mañana;
ya miran en el tiempo, ¡padre mío!,
piadosamente mi cabeza cana.
Michael Parish Sep 2014
1

Black beans
The earths hair
The roots of her body
Gazed  at my blue horizons
Like endless hills of wheat.

2.  We ran away in
This red convertible
Your arm smiled
Like the way
That Bonnet you wore
Shun with your smile
In the front seats warming leather.

3.   I can't believe the elm trees
Welcome a rattle of wind like the way their leaves
Leave   his midsummer dreams.
How Cana boy
Finally
Return
With his crazy lover
Like the American dream
Was all about her desire.  

4.  I told ya she took all I had and I'm still
Dancing
Like the wide rivers
Releasing the passion
Inside of crying glaciers.  
To keep my river fresh and blue forever
Like generations
Of salmon returning home.
Este hombre del casino provinciano
que vio a Carancha recibir un día,
tiene mustia la tez, el pelo cano,
ojos velados por melancolía;
bajo el bigote gris, labios de hastío,
y una triste expresión, que no es tristeza,
sino algo más y menos: el vacío
del mundo en la oquedad de su cabeza.Aún luce de corinto terciopelo
chaqueta y pantalón abotinado,
y un cordobés color de caramelo,
pulido y torneado.
Tres veces heredó; tres ha perdido
al monte su caudal; dos ha enviudado.Sólo se anima ante el azar prohibido,
sobre el verde tapete reclinado,
o al evocar la tarde de un torero,
la suerte de un tahúr, o si alguien cuenta
la hazaña de un gallardo bandolero,
o la proeza de un matón, sangrienta.Bosteza de política banales
dicterios al gobierno reaccionario,
y augura que vendrán los liberales,
cual torna la cigüeña al campanario.Un poco labrador, del cielo aguarda
y al cielo teme; alguna vez suspira,
pensando en su olivar, y al cielo mira
con ojo inquieto, si la lluvia tarda.Lo demás, taciturno, hipocondriaco,
prisionero en la Arcadia del presente,
le aburre; sólo el humo del tabaco
simula algunas sombras en su frente.Este hombre no es de ayer ni es de mañana,
sino de nunca; de la cepa hispana
no es el fruto maduro ni podrido,
es una fruta vana
de aquella España que pasó y no ha sido,
esa que hoy tiene la cabeza cana.
unknown Feb 2018
Love something I cherish to the end of my days
Keeps me happy and sane
In particular
He keeps me happy and sane
Through the good and bad
Through the happy and sad
We do have ‘fights’
But good fights like whose cuter
Whose more perfect
Who can send the most emojis
Love Cana make you do stupid things
Such as staying up past 1am
And knowing you have a test the next day
Or going out too late with that person
But something that is sad about love is
When they’re 1,000 miles away
You miss them
You long for their touch
You lust for just one night
But it still keeps you happy
It makes that whole in your heart filled
Filled with joy and delight
When they call,
When they text,
Your stomach gets butterflies
Because love is perfect
Love is life
Love is knowing your with the right person
And Love
Is beautiful.
La abuelita guardaba, con olor de vainilla
Su guitarra en estuche forrado en verde pana.
¡Hace ya tantos años!...   Era en la edad lejana
De contradanzas lentas, mantón y redecilla.

La abuelita tocaba, siempre alegre y sencilla;
Y con cuánto donaire, su cabecita cana
Iba el compás llevando, al tocar la pavana
Que bailaba en sus tiempos de noviazgo en Sevilla.

Y tocaba y cantaba la abuelita.   Su canto,
De lo que ha muerto y vive tenía el dulce encanto,
Y siempre el estribillo decía: «¿No te acuerdas?»

Y una tarde -la última- «¿No te acuerdas?» cantaba,
Bajó los ojos tristes, mas la vi que lloraba;
Y sus cabellos blancos cayeron en las cuerdas.
Steve Page Jul 24
"On the third day a wedding took place at Cana in Galilee.
Mary was there with Jesus
and she nudged her son: 
'The wine has finished. This - is - not - good.' 
And Jesus said, 'Mum. Not now'. 

And Mary said 'Listen to your mother.' 
And Jesus sighed.

And Mary told the servants, 
"Do whatever he tells you." 
Then Jesus saw that it was no use arguing. And he said, "let the jars be filled with water". 
And they rolled the stone jars in front of him.
And then Jesus said, "Let there be wine". 
And they poured the wine.
And it was so - very - good.

And Mary smiled to herself,
thinking how Joseph would have loved this, 
and she whispered to Jesus: 
'This just the start you know.' 
And he did, - and it was. 

There was a mother's faith 
and gallons of glorious wine. 
And there was a mother's smile
at the sight of her son
and of this start of his new-vintage Kingdom 
with this original third day miracle. 
A sign of things to come.

And there was a party and singing 
and much laughter, 
with the Son dancing with his mother
into the evening - a Fine Third Day.
John 2:1
"On the third day a wedding took place at Cana in Galilee. Jesus’ mother was there,"
CharlesC Jan 2019
it is a
matter of belief
a religious persuasion
that the conversion
was a miracle
unquestioned..
marking a tribe..

might we find
an expression of
this astonishing story
for a more universal
understanding..

to his mother
he was direct:
that his hour had
not yet come..
how we ask is
this related to
the rest of the story..

water
stands forth as our
essence divine..
wine
for all experience
for lives seeming
to be separate..
the Cana conversion
calmly asserts: wine
is made of water..

a new hour
will know suffering
born of fear and desire
a forgetting of Cana..
wine is resurrected
recognized as water
our essence clarified
as a miracle unveils...

(ref:  John 2: 1-11)
Muzaffer Mar 2019
merhaba sarnıçları alnın
ve alt parlamentosu
kaz ayaklarım
sizi seviyorum

değirmen
kaçkını saçlarım merhaba
koşudan yorgun mu
apak sevdanız
fukaralık gibi
beni yalnız bırakmadınız

gözlerim merhaba
ne canlar yaktınız kim bilir
çoğundan haberim olmadı
çocuk mu hala bakışlarım
bulansa da mavilikler
deniz feneri gibi
ümit burnu’ndayım

merhaba dilim
kem konuştun bazen duydum
duydu absolut üzengim, çekicim
kemik meselesi deme
lâkin
erdemine alkışım
her daim özür diledin

merhaba
acı patlıcanlar
kırağ çaldınız hep
bir kadının dudağında
refuse edildiniz çoğu zaman
pek azınız durmakta
dudaklarda ya
ıslık çalan
buselere merhaba

merhaba, merhaba
ellerim, ayaklarım
bazen boş yola çıktınız
dolu rızkla döndünüz
cana gözkulak oldunuz
minnettarım...

(şşştt.
sen dersini yap
bakıyim...)

merhaba yüreğim
kaç şıpsevdi konakladı
kim bilir
kaçı hançerleyip kaçtı
yine de memnunum senden
ara da bir
cızz etmesen
ama ne şereftir ölüm
senin kudretli elinden
uyurken gel
ve canımı yakma

öte yanda ki
ekmekli kadayıf zaten...
Si vieras, amiga,
qué espacio transcurre mi lenta existencia
la marcha inmutable del tiempo fatiga
        mi añeja dolencia;
mis torvos fastidios apenas mitiga
        la gloria que llevo:
        tu amor siempre nuevo,
        tu afecto sencillo...
Y todas las noches mi dulce reclamo
escucha en tus rejas el viejo estribillo:
        -¿Me quieres?
                                            -¡Te amo!
Monótona corre mi vida, bien mío;
sus páginas tristes me dicta el hastío.
        Los días son iguales
        como ondulaciones
que van de los lagos sobre los cristales.
        Prende la mañana
        sus fulguraciones
        sobre la sabana.
        Y al morir el día
asoma la noche sus negros capuces
        por la serranía,
y con sus arenas refleja el desierto
        las últimas luces
        del astro ya muerto.
        En vanas quimeras
        consumo mis días;
tus horas que mueren pasan cual viajeras,
        con ellas las mías
        y ante tu ventura
        te digo muy quedo
que a veces hastiado medito con miedo,
        cariñosa hermana,
        en el día sombrío,
en las inclemencias del invierno frío
que en tus bucles deje la primera cana.
Tus páginas tristes me dicta el hastío...
        mis sueños
        pequeños,
        mi vida
        escondida;
y noche por noche con suave reposo
        llegando a tu reja
        te digo amoroso
la frase de antaño, la cláusula vieja.

— The End —