Félix Rubén García Sarmiento, known as Rubén Darío (Metapa, today Ciudad Darío, Matagalpa, January 18, 1867 - León, February 6, 1916), was a Nicaraguan poet, maximum representative of literary modernism in the Spanish language. It is possibly the poet who has had a greater and more lasting influence on the poetry of the twentieth century in the Hispanic arena. He is called prince of the castilian letters. Rubén Darío is generally cited as the initiator and maximum representative of Hispanic Modernism. While this is true in broad strokes, it is a statement that must be qualified. Other Latin American authors, such as José Santos Chocano, José Martí, Salvador Díaz Mirón, or Manuel Gutiérrez Nájera, José Asunción Silva, to name a few, had begun to explore this new aesthetic even before Darío wrote the work that has traditionally been considered the Starting point of Modernism, his Blue book ... (1888). Even so, it cannot be denied that Darío is the most influential modernist poet, and the one who achieved the greatest success, both in life and after his death. His teaching was recognized by numerous poets in Spain and America, and his influence has never ceased to be felt in Spanish language poetry. In addition, he was the main architect of many emblematic stylistic findings of the movement, such as, for example, the adaptation to the Spanish metric of the French Alexandrian. In addition, he was the first poet who articulated the innovations of Modernism in a coherent poetic. From profane prose, he became the visible head of the new literary movement. His influence on his contemporaries was immense. The evolution of his work also marks the guidelines of the modernist movement: if in 1896 Profane Prosas means the triumph of aesthetics, Songs of life and hope (1905) already announces the intimacy of the final phase of Modernism, which some critics have called postmodernism. Poetic work The first important book was Blue (1888, second edition extended in 1890). It means in his work the moment of search, the French influence of Victor Hugo and the Parnassians, the preciousness. Profane prose (1896) is the culmination of the most exuberant and resounding Modernism. We must highlight in this book sensuality and eroticism and the beginning of poems about Spanish motives. Songs of life and hope (1905) is his most important work. A thematic extension appears, from your own privacy to communication with others. The tone has deepened and, in many poems, a greater simplicity of expression is appreciated. We must highlight a series of impressive poems in which he expresses his own bitterness, anguish and fear. The political concern the defense of the Hispanic world against Anglo-Saxon colonization, especially North American, is another aspect worth noting. The musical singer of swans, princesses and festive parties is, at this moment, the creator of the poem poem "Lo fatal". Other important books are: The wandering song (1907) and Autumn Poem and other poems (1910). Here are some of his poems: D
In the middle of the path of life ... Dante said. His verse becomes: In the middle of the path of death. And do not hate the ignored Empress and queen of nothing. For her our fabric is woven, And she in the cup of dreams pours a nepente opposite: she does not forget!
It is gray and sad afternoon. You saw the sea of velvet And the deep sky you saw Of grief. From the abyss rises The bitter and sonorous complaint. The wave, when the wind sings, cries. The violins of the mist greet the dying sun. Salmodia the white foam: Miserere. The harmony of the sky floods, And the breeze will carry The sad and deep song Of the sea. From the clarion of the horizon Rare symphony springs, As if the voice of Mount Vibrara. What if it was the invisible ... What if it was the rude one, That I gave the wind a terrible Lion.
On the couch
On the couch I left the mandolin And I went to kiss the glitter mouth, The mouth of my beautiful Florentine. And she is sweet and pink and bites and kisses; And it's a pink, strawberry mouth; And Love has not seen mouth like that. Blood, ruby, coral, carmine, carnations, There are on his thin and cruel lips, Strong peppers, aromatic honeys. White teeth rhyme like verses, And they know those fine, smooth teeth, capricious and perverse bites.
You who are the beard in the hand Meditabundo, have you passed, brother, The flower of the world? You lament the yesterdays With vain complaints: There are still promises of pleasures In the mornings! You can still marry the fragrant Rosa and the lis, and there are myrtle for your proud gray head. The cruel soul there immolates What makes her happy, Like Zingua, Queen of Angola, Black Rubric. You have enjoyed the kind hour, and you hear later The imprecation of the formidable Ecclesiastes. Love Sunday enchants you; But look how Ash Wednesday arrives; Memento, homo ... That's why towards the flowery mount Souls go, And Anacreon and Omar Kayam are explained. Fleeing from evil, suddenly You enter evil Through the door of Artificial paradise. And, nevertheless, life is beautiful, for possessing the pearl, the rose, the star and the woman. Lucifer shines. The hoarse Mar sings. And Silvano is lost hidden behind the trunk of the green beech. And we feel the pure, clear, real life, When the Spring sweetness envelops it. Why vile envies And insults, When they twist their reptiles Pale fury? Why the unfortunate hatred of the ungrateful? Why the livid gestures of Pilate? If the land ends, in short, Heaven and hell, And our lives are the foam Of an eternal sea! Let's wash our veins well, the bitter prose; Let's dream in a light blue Mystic. Let's take the flower of the moment The melody Of the magic lark sing The honey of the day! Love to your party and And crown us. We all have in life Our Verona. Even in the twilight hour Sing a voice: "Ruth, smiling, comes to glean For Boaz!" But take the flower of the moment, When the dawn is born in the East for the fragrant teenager. Oh, boy that with Echoes you play, Childhood Children, Dance like the Greek nymphs And the Silvanians! The old time all gnaws And goes quickly; Know how to beat him, Cintia, Cloe and Cidalisa. Trocad by orange blossoms, That sounds the sound of that Song of Solomon Songs. Priapus watches in the gardens that Cipris imprints; Hecate makes the mastiffs howl; But Diana is beautiful, And barely wrapped in the veils Of illusion, Go down to the forests of the heavens By Ending. Adolescence! Love gilds you with its virtue; Enjoy the kiss of dawn, Oh youth! Unfortunate is he who has taken the flower late! And woe to him who has never known What love is! I have seen in tropical land Blood burn, As in a glass chalice, In women, And everywhere she loves And is consumed Like a flower made of flame And perfume. Hold on to that flame And breathe That perfume that embalms Humanity. Enjoy the flesh, that good That enchants us today And then it will turn into Powder and ash. Enjoy the sun, the pagan Light of its fires; Enjoy the sun, because tomorrow you will be blind. Enjoy the sweet harmony that Apollo invokes; Enjoy singing, because one day you will not have a mouth. Enjoy the earth, which a certain Good contains; Enjoy, because you are not yet Under the earth. Set aside the fear that freezes you And that restricts you; The dove of Venus flies over the Sphinx. They still win death, time and fate The loving ones; Mirtos and roses have been found in the graves. Even Anadiómena in his fight gives us his help; It still resurfaces in the work of Fidias Friné naked. Live the biblical Adam robust, Of human blood, And still our tongue feels the taste of the apple. And it makes this living globe Force and action The universal and omnipotent fertilization. The heart of heaven beats For the victory Of this living, which is a fight And it is a glory. For although there is sorrow and the adverse fate aggravates us, In us runs the sap of the universe. Our skull keeps vibrating From land and sun, Like the noise of the sea The snail. Sea salt in our veins Spurts; We have blood of mermaids and newts. To us oaks, laurels, thick fronds; We have meat from centaurs and satiresas. In us life pours strength and heat. Let's go to the realm of death On the road of love!
Oh, misery of every struggle for the divine!
Oh, misery of all struggle for the finite! It's like the wing of the butterfly Our arm that leaves written thought. Our childhood is worth the rose, The lightning our gaze, And the rhythm that in the chest Our heart moves, It is a rhythm of sea wave, Or a falling of snowflake, Or the singing of the nightingale, That lasts what lasts The perfume of her sister's flower. Oh, misery of all struggle for the finite! The soul that sees itself simple and clearly looks at The pure grace of light face to face, Like the pink button, like the coccinela, That soul is the one at the bottom of infinity flies. The soul that has forgotten the admiration, that suffers In the bitter melancholy, smelling of sulfur, Of badly and hard envy, nests In a nest of moles. It is manca. It is crippled. Oh, misery of all struggle for the finite!
To a crusader knight, Garrido and noble heron, In the palenque warrior They nailed a steel So close to the heart, That the physicist when contemplating him, After seeing him and examining him, He said: "He will be left without life If he intends to take him The venablo from the wound" . For the sorrow, sad, weak, bleeding, After suffering so much, With the steel nailed The knight died. For the physicist said that, in that case, who such a wound had, with the venablo died, without the venablo too. Do not you understand, Asunción, The story that I have told you, The one with the garrido garzón With the steel nailed Very close to the heart? For the case is true; I am the wounded, ungrateful, And your love is steel: If you take it from me, I die; If you let me, it kills me!
Do you remember that you wanted to be a Margarita Gautier? I fix your strange face on my mind, When we have dinner together, on the first date, On a joyful night that will never come back. Your scarlet lips of damn purple Sipped the champagne of the fine baccarat; Your fingers defoliated the white daisy: "Yes ... no ... yes ... no ..." And you knew I loved you already! Then, oh flower of hysteria! You cried and laughed; Your kisses and your tears I had in my mouth; Your laughs, your fragrances, your complaints were mine. And on a sad afternoon of the sweetest days, Death, the jealous, to see if you loved me, Like a daisy of love he stripped you!
Francisca, be gentle
Francisca, be gentle, It's your sweet duty; Be a bird to me That I was a woman. Francisca, be a flower And my life perfumes, Made all of love And of pain and foam. Francisca, be an ointment Like my thought; Francisca, be a flower What my subtle love; Francisca, be a woman, How it should be ... Know how to love and feel And admire how to pray ... And the science of living And the virtue of waiting.
In the quiet night, my bitter nostalgia suffered. In search of stillness, I went down to the cool and quiet garden. In the dark sky, beautiful Venus trembling looked like a gold and divine jasmine embedded in ebony. To my soul in love, an oriental queen seemed, that she waited for her lover, under the roof of her dressing room, or that, carried on her shoulders, the deep extension traveled, triumphant and luminous, lying on a palanquin. "Oh blonde queen!" I said, "my soul wants to leave its chrysalis And fly towards you, and your lips of fire kiss; And float in the nimbus that spills pale light on your forehead, And in sidereal ecstasies do not leave you a moment of to love". The Night air cooled the warm atmosphere. Venus, looking down from the abyss, looked at me sadly.
On the expensive dispossession of this chisel urn A kind freshness of immortal immortelle That decorates the freckle of the votive urn In the cup that keeps dew from the sky; A fleeting lark surprised on his flight When he went to sing on the olive branch, A statue of Diana in the native jungle That the Harmony muse wrapped in her veil. As if he were a sculptor with a chiselled love In the divine marble offered by Carrara, crowning the work a lyre, a cross; And it would be my dream, at the birth of the dawn, to contemplate on the face of a girl who cries, A tear full of love and light.
That there is no soul? Foolish! I have seen it: it is light ... It shows your pupils When you look at me. That there is no heaven? Lie! Do you want to see him? Here it is. Show, gentle girl, That unparalleled face, And let it be bathed in gold The spring sun. That there is no God? What blasphemy! I have contemplated God ... In that chaste and pure First kiss of love, When of our souls The nuptials consecrated. That there is no hell? Yes, there is ... Shut up, sweetheart, May this be good, unfortunately, you and I know it.
Why so? Not very sweet
Why so? It's not very sweet. The word, I confess. But, of that strange bitterness The explanation is in this: After crying my tears Rough like the wormwood, My heart was disturbed The storm of my nerves. The laughter continued to moan, And to yawning the yawn, And to the word the insult, And to the gaze the fire; Through the door of his mouth The brain threw his flame, And on that dark night And on that black background, With the storm of the soul The thought flashed And thorns came out To the flowers of my verses.
Ite, missa est
I adore a sleepwalker with the soul of Eloisa, Virgin as snow and deep as the sea; His spirit is the host of my loving mass, and I rise to the sound of a sweet twilight lyre. Evocative eyes, a prophetess gesture, In it there is the sacred frequency of the altar; His laugh is the soft smile of Monna Lisa, Her lips are the only lips to kiss. And I have to kiss her one day with red burning kiss; Leaning on my arm as a convalescent, she will look at me amazed with intimate dread; A sphinx in love will be dumbfounded, I will extinguish the flame of the intact vestal, and the ancient faunal will roar of love!
Meat, light blue woman's meat
Meat, light blue meat of the woman! Clay - Hugo said - ambrosia rather, oh wonder !, Life is supported, So mournful and so short, Only for that reason: Rubbing, biting or kissing In that divine bread For which our blood is our wine. In it is the lyre, In it is the rose, In it is the harmonious science, In it you breathe The vital perfume of everything. Eva and Cipris concentrate the mystery of the heart of the world. When the golden Pegasus In the morning victory is launched With the magical rhythm of its passage Towards life and towards hope, If it lifts the mane and noses it swells And on the mountains it puts the sound helmet And towards the sea neighs, And space It is filled With a great tremor of gold, It is that it has seen Anadiomena naked. Gloria, oh potent whom the shadows fear! May the whitest turtledoves immolate you, because for you the forest is in the pollen And the thought in the sacred semen! Glory, oh sublime, that you are the existence For whom there are always futures in the eternal womb! Your mouth tastes like the fruit of the tree of science And by twisting your hair you turned off hell! Useless is the cry of the cowardly legion Of interest, useless "Yankee" progress, if it disdains you. If the progress is of fire, it burns for you. Every struggle of man goes to your kiss, For you you fight or dream! For in you there is spring for the sad, Joyful work for the strong, Nectar, amphora, kind sweetness. Because in you there is the pleasure of living until death Before the eternity of the probable!
The sonnet of thirteen verses
Of a youthful innocence What to keep but the subtle Perfume, essence of its April, The most wonderful essence! For regretting my conscience It was a sonic ivory A story that was one thousand And one nights of my existence ... Scherezada became a little bit ... The vizier was meditating ... Dinarzarda the day forgot ... But the blue bird He came back ... But ... However ... Always ... When ...
Love your rhythm
Love your rhythm and rhythm your actions Under his law, as well as your verses; You are a universe of universes And your soul a source of songs. The heavenly unity that you presuppose will make different worlds sprout in you, and as your scattered numbers resonate in your constellations. Listen to the divine rhetoric of the bird, of the air and of the night. Kill the taciturn indifference And crimp pearl and crystalline pearl Where the truth turns its urn.
The poet asks about Stella
Divine Lily, Lily of the Annunciations; Lily, flowery prince, scented brother of the caste stars, jewel of the Aprils. To you the white targets of the ducal parks; the necks of the swans, the mystical stanzas of celestial chants and in the sacred empyrean the hand of the virgins. Lily, mouth of snow where its sweet lips spring prints: in your veins does not run the blood of sinful roses, but the exceeding ich of insecure flowers. Real lyric lily that you are born with the sapwood of sublime hosts, candid pearls and flax without macula of the surplices: Have you ever seen the flight of the soul of my Stella, the sister of Ligera, for whom my song sometimes It's so sad?
Oh, mental earthquake!
Oh, mental earthquake! I felt one day in my skull Like the subiturnal falling of a crystal Babel. From Pascal I looked at the abyss, and saw what he could see When he felt Baudelaire The wing of idiotism. We must, however, be strong; Pass all precipice And be victor of vice Of madness and death.
In the midst of the abyss of doubt Full of darkness, of vain shadow There is a star whose reflections rise Sublime, yes, more silent, silent. She, with her divine radiance, shields, Encourages and guides the human conscience, When the evil genius with insane fury Hit her fiercely, with a rough hand. That star sprouted from the pure germ of human creation? Did he come down from heaven To illuminate the dark future? To serve the one who cries with comfort? I don't know, but what inflames our soul. You know, you know, faith is called.
Divine Psyche, sweet invisible butterfly That from the abysses you have become everything What in my nervous being and in my sensitive body Forms the sacred spark of the mud statue! You look out of my eyes in the light of the earth And prisoner you live in me of strange desire; They reduce you to slave my senses in war And you just wander free in the garden of sleep. I knew of the lust that knows ancient sciences, You sometimes shake between impossible walls, And beyond all vulgar consciences Explore the most terrible and dark corners. And you find shadow and grief. What a shadow and duel you find Under the vineyard where the Devil's wine is born. You sit on the breasts, you sit on the bellies That made Juan crazy and made Paul sane. To virgin Juan and Pablo military and violent, To Juan who never knew of the supreme contact; To Paul the stormy man who found Christ in the wind, And to John before whom Hugo is stunned. Between the cathedral and the pagan ruins Vuelas, oh Psyche, oh my soul! -As He said that heavenly Edgardo, who entered paradise between a bell and a perfume of tuberose-, Between the cathedral And the pagan ruins Spread your two crystal wings, Your two divine wings. And of the flower That the nightingale sings in his ancient Greek, of the rose, You fly, oh, butterfly! To perch on a nail of our Lord.
I know that there are those who say: why don't you sing now With that harmonious madness of yesteryear? Those do not see the profound work of the hour, The work of the minute and the prodigy of the year. I, poor tree, produced the love of the breeze, When I started to grow, they are lazy and sweet. The time of the youthful smile has passed: Let the hurricane move my heart!
In winter hours, look at Carolina. Half crammed, it rests in the armchair, Wrapped with its marten cyber coat And not far from the fire that shines in the living room. The fine white angora next to her reclines, rubbing with its beak the skirt of Alençón, not far from the jars of Chinese porcelain Which half conceals a silk screen of Japan. With its subtle filters a sweet dream invades; I enter, making no noise; I leave my gray coat; I'm going to kiss her rosy and rosy face. Like a red rose that was fleur de lis; Open your eyes; Look at me with your laughing look And as the snow falls from the sky of Paris.
Month of roses Go my rhymes In the round, to the vast jungle, To collect honey and aromas In the flowers ajar. Beloved, come. The great forest is our temple; There flies And floats a holy perfume Of love. The bird flies From one tree to another and greets Your beautiful pink forehead Like a dawn; and the oaks Robust, tall, arrogant, When you pass they shake Of the hymns of that tongue Their green leaves and tremulous, And they raise their branches as For a queen to pass. Oh my beloved! It is the sweet time of spring. Look in your eyes mine; Give the wind the hair, And let the sun bathe that hoop Of wild and splendid light. Give me to squeeze my hands Yours pink and silk, And laugh, and show your lips Its wet and fresh purple. I'm going to tell you rhymes, you're going to hear laughing; If any nightingale came to land near And tell a story Of nymphs, roses and stars, You will not hear notes or trills, But, in love and regal, You will listen to my songs Set in my trembling lips. Oh my beloved! It is the sweet time of spring. There is a clear source that springs from a cave, where they bathe naked The white nymphs that play. They laugh at the sound of the foam, They tend the serene lymph; Among crystalline dust Sponge your hair; And they know love hymns In beautiful Greek language, That in glorious ancient times Pan invented in the forests. Beloved, I will put in my rhymes The most superb word Of the phrase of the verses Of the hymns of the tongue; And I'll tell you that word Soaked in hiblea honey ... Oh, my beloved! It is the sweet time of spring. They go in their vibrant groups Revoking the bees Like a golden whirlwind That the white light rejoices; And on the sound water They pass radiant, light, With their crystalline wings The iridescent dragonflies. Hey: Cicada sings Because he loves the sun, that in the jungle His golden dust sifts, Among the thick leaves. His breath gives us in a breath Fecund the mother earth, With the soul of the chalices And the aroma of the herbs. Do you see that nest? There is a bird. There are two: the male and the female. She has the white crop, He has the black feathers. In the throat the twitter, the white wings and tremulous; And the spikes that collide Like lips that kiss. The nest is canticle. The bird Incuba the trill, oh poets! Of the universal lyre The bird strikes a rope. Blessed the sacred heat That made the buds burst. Oh my beloved! It is the sweet time of spring. My sweet muse Delicia brought me a Greek amphora Chiselled in alabaster, Naxos wine filled; And a beautiful gold cup, The base filled with pearls, So that he drank the wine That is conducive to the poets. In the amphora is Diana, Real, proud, slender, With her divine nakedness And in a hunting attitude. And in the luminous cup is Venus Citerea Tended near Adonis That her caresses disdain. He doesn't want the wine of Naxos, nor the amphora of beautiful handles, nor the cup where Cipria Al gallardo Adonis prays. I want to drink from love Only in your mouth vermilion. Oh my beloved! It is the sweet time of spring.
One day I was sad, very sadly watching the water fall from a fountain; It was the sweet and Argentine night. The night was crying. The night sighed. The night was sobbing. And the twilight in his soft amethyst, Dilute the tear of a mysterious artist. And that artist was me, mysterious and groaning, that mixed my soul to the jet of the fountain.
I cried in my arms dressed in black, I could hear the beat of his heart, The brown curls covered his neck And all trembled with fear and love. Who had the fault? The quiet night. I was going to say goodbye. When I said "goodbye!", She, sobbing, hugged my chest Under that branch of the almond tree in bloom. The clouds veiled the moon request ... Then, sadly we both cried. What are you crying I understand. Everything is finished. But I don't want to see you, my soul, cry. Our love, always, always ... Our weddings ... never. Who is that bandit Who came to steal Your flowery crown And your bridal veil? But no, don't tell me, I don't want to hear it. Your name is Innocence And his is Satan. An abyss to your plants, A procacious hand that pushes you; You roll, And in the meantime, go The angel of your guardian Sad and just cry. But why do you shed so many tears? Ah! Yes, I understand everything ... No, don't tell me more.
Harmonious Sea, Wonderful Sea, Your Salty Fragrance, Your Colors and Sound Music Give me the divine feeling of my childhood When the soft hours came in a quiet dance step To leave me a dream or fairy gift. Harmonious sea, Marvelous sea, Of diamond arcades that break into Rhythmic flights that denounce some hidden impetus, Mirror of my vague cities of the heavens, White and blue tumult Where an Inextinguishable song springs, Paternal sea, Holy sea, My soul Feel the influence of your invisible soul. Candles of the Colones And candles of the Basques, Harassed by hatreds of cyclones Before the hostility of the boulders; Or galleys of gold, Purple candles of lows that greeted the mugir of the Celeste bull, with Europe on the spine that splashed the foam revolt. Magnificent and sound It is heard in the waters like A trope of tropeles, Tropel of the tropeles of newts! Arms come out of the wave, vague songs sound, precious stones shine, While in the troubled expanses Venus and the sun make a thousand roses be born.
How did you say, my friend?
How did you say, my friend? What love is a river? It is not weird. It is certainly a river that, joining the confluent of the diversion, will be lost in the sea of disappointment.
Brother, you who have the light, tell me mine. I am like a blind man. I go aimlessly and grope. I go under storms and storms Blind of sleep and crazy of harmony. That is my bad. Sound. Poetry It is the iron shirt of a thousand bloody tips I wear on my soul. The bloody thorns Drop the drops of my melancholy. And so I go, blind and crazy, for this bitter world; Sometimes it seems to me that the road is very long, and sometimes that it is very short ... And in this hesitation of breath and agony, Charge full of sorrows what I barely stand. Do not you hear the drops of my melancholy?
The swan in the shadow looks like snow; Its beak is amber, from dawn to light; The soft twilight that passes so brief The candid wings of light sound. And then, in the waves of the bluish lake, After the dawn lost its grip, The wings spread and the neck raised, The swan is silver, bathed in sun. Such is, when sponge the silk feathers, Olympic bird wounded of love, And violates Leda's sonic lymphs, Looking for its beak lips in bloom. The beautiful naked and defeated sighs, And as long as their complaints go into the air, From the greenish background of bushy frond, Pan's eyes are disturbed.
I want to express my anguish in verses that abolish My youth will say roses and dreams, And the bitter defloration of my life For a vast pain and small care. And the trip to a vague East by interviewed ships, And the grain of prayers that flourished in blasphemies, And the swans of the swan between the puddles, And the false night blue of unwanted bohemia. Far clavichord that in silence and oblivion Never gave the sublime sonata to sleep, Orphaned skiff, untidy tree, dark nest That softened the night of silver sweetness ... Smellful hope of fresh herbs, trill Of spring and morning nightingale, Trunked lily for a fatal destiny, He seeks happiness, persecution of evil ... The unfortunate amphora of the divine poison Who must do for life the internal torture; The awful conscience of our human celestial And the horror of feeling transient, the horror of groping, in intermittent frights, Towards the inevitable unknown, and the brutal Nightmare of this sleep of tears Of which there is nothing but her that we will wake up!
From the Tropic
How cheerful and fresh the little morning! The air grabs me by the nose, The dogs bark, a boy screams And a fat and pretty girl On a stone, grinds corn. A young man brings along his path His tools and his backpack; Another, with caites and without a hat, looks for a cow with its calf to milk it next to the corral. Smiling at times to the girl, Who passes from the stone to the stove, A sabanero with a good face, Almost squatting, sharpens the ax On a shore of the gizzard. Through the hills the light is lost Under the clear and endless sky; There the cattle the leaves bite, And there are in the stems of the green grass Beetles of gold and carmine. Sounding a curved and sonorous horn, A cowboy passes by, in full light The cows and a white bull come, With some golden-colored spots Through the belly and in the testimony. And the patron, who bats, I rejoices with the illusion Of a large cup of chocolate, That has to pass me by the gaznate With toast and cottage cheese.
Clear morning hours When a thousand gold clarines Say the divine target! Save the heavenly Sun sound! In the anguish of ignorance Of the future, let's greet The boat full of fragrance That has rowing ivory. Epicureans or dreamers Let us love the glorious life, Always crowned with flowers And always the torch burning! We squeeze out of the clusters Of our transitory life Pleasures because we live And the champagne of glory. Let us weave the threads of Love, Let us do, because it is beautiful, good, And then we sleep peacefully And forever and ever. Amen.
Oh, my beloved girl!
Oh, my beloved girl! I will tell you the truth: Your eyes look like Brasas behind a glass; Your curls, black mourning, And your mouth unparalleled, The bloody footprint Of the edge of a dagger.
Love you love
Love, love, love, love always, with all Being and with the earth and with the sky, With the light of the sun and the dark of the mud; Love for all science and love for all yearning. And when the mountain of life is hard and long and high and full of chasms, love the immensity that is on fire and burn in the fusion of our own breasts!
The bare feet dancer
I was going, in a rhythmic and feline step To sweet, agile or rough advances, With some animal and divine The barefoot dancer. Her skirt was the skirt of roses, On her breasts there were two shields ... Constellated with cases and things ... The dancer with bare feet. A thousand breast delights were going down towards the sunken pearl of the navel, and they began obscene purposes Strawberry sugars and fig honey. On one side of the gestatory chair were my jesters and my mute ... And it was all Selene and Anactoria The dancer of the bare feet!
That love doesn't admit ropes reflections
Madam, love is violent, and when it transfigures us, it turns us on. Madness. Do not ask my arms for peace That yours have prisoners: My hugs are war And my kisses are fire; And it would be vain attempt to turn my mind dark If I turn on the thought Madness. Clear is my mind Of flames of love, lady, Like the shop of the day Or the palace of the dawn. And to the perfume of your ointment My fortune pursues you, And the thought ignites me Madness. My joy is your palate Rico honeycomb conceptualizes, As in the holy Song: Mel et lac sub lingua tua. The delight of your breath In such a divine vessel hurries, And the thought ignites me Madness.
I chase a way
I pursue a form that does not find my style, Thought button that seeks to be the rose; It is announced with a kiss that perches on my lips To the impossible hug of the Venus de Milo. Green palms adorn the white peristyle; The stars have predicted the vision of the goddess; And in my soul the light rests, as the bird of the moon rests on a calm lake. And I find only the word that flees, The melodic initiation that flows from the flute And the dream boat that in vogue space; And under the window of my sleeping beauty, The continuous sob of the jet of the fountain And the neck of the great white swan that interrogates me.
Autumn song in spring
Youth, divine treasure, you're leaving to not come back! When I want to cry, I don't cry ... And sometimes I cry without wanting ... Plural has been the blue Story of my heart. She was a sweet girl, in this world of grief and affliction. He looked like pure dawn; He smiled like a flower. It was his dark hair Made at night and in pain. I was shy as a child. She, naturally, was, For my love made of Ermine, Herodias and Salome ... Youth, divine treasure, You are leaving to never return ...! When I want to cry, I don't cry ... And sometimes I cry without wanting ... And more comforting and more flattering and expressive, the other was more sensitive which I never thought I would find. As to its continued violent passion tenderness between them. In a gauze of pure gauze A bacha was wrapped ... In his arms he took my reverie And rolled him like a baby ... And killed him, sad and small, Lack of light, lack of faith ... Youth, divine Treasure, you left to never come back! When I want to cry, I don't cry ... And sometimes I cry without wanting ... Another judged that it was my mouth The case of his passion; And that he would gnaw at me, crazy, With his teeth the heart, Putting in a love of excess He looks at her will, While they were hug and kiss Synthesis of eternity; And of our light flesh Always imagine an Eden, Without thinking that spring And the flesh also ends ... Youth, divine treasure, You are leaving to never return! When I want to cry, I don't cry ... And sometimes I cry without wanting ... And the others! In so many climates, In so many lands they always are, If not pretexts of my rhymes Ghosts of my heart. In vain I looked for the princess who was sad to wait. Life is hard. Bitter and heavy. There is no princess to sing anymore! But despite the stubborn time, My thirst for love has no end; With gray hair, I approach the rose bushes in the garden ... Youth, divine treasure, you're leaving to never come back! When I want to cry, I don't cry ... And sometimes I cry without wanting ... But mine is the dawn of gold!
It was a soft air
It was a soft air of leisurely turns; Fairy Harmony, rhythming her flights, And there were vague phrases and faint sighs Between the sobs and the cellos. On the terrace, next to the branches, a tremolo of Aeolian liras would be made, When they caressed the silky suits On the erect waist, the white magnolias. Marquise Eulalia, laughter and detours He gave at the same time for two rivals: The blond viscount of the challenges And the young Abbot of the madrigals. Nearby, crowned by vine leaves, Laughed in his mask Bearded term, And like an ephebe that was a girl He showed a Diana her bare marble. And under a boscaje of the Palestinian love, On a rich socket in the manner of Ionia, With a candlestick lit on the right hand, the Mercury of Juan de Bologna flew. The orchestra pearled its magical notes; A chorus of winged sounds could be heard; Pavanas gallant, fleeting seagulls, They sang the sweet violins of Hungary. Hearing the complaints of his knights, Laugh, laugh, laugh at the divine Eulalia, For the arrows of Eros are his treasure, The belt of Cipria, the wheel of Onfalia. Woe from whom your honeys and phrases collect! Woe to the one who trusts in the song of his love! With her pretty eyes and her red mouth, La Divina Eulalia, laugh, laugh, laugh. She has blue eyes, she is evil and beautiful; When he looks, he sheds strange light alive; It shows its wet star pupils The soul of the blond Champagne crystal. It's party night and the costume dance shows off its glory of worldly triumphs. The divine Eulalia, dressed in lace, A flower destroys with her white hands. The harmonious keyboard of his fine laughter The cheerful music of a bird equals. With the staccati of a dancer And the crazy leaks of a schoolgirl. Loving bird that trills exhale Under the wing sometimes hiding the beak. What rude disdain he throws under the wing, Under the small wing of the slight fan! When at midnight his notes start And in golden arpeggios moans Filomela, And the eburneous swan, on the still pond, As white gondola prints his wake, The cheerful marquise will arrive at the grove, Boscaje that covers the kind roundabout Where you have to shake your arms of a page That being his page will be his poet. To the rhythm of an artist's song from Italy That in the wandering breeze the orchestra slides, Next to the rivals, the divine Eulalia, The divine Eulalia, laughs, laughs, laughs. Was it at the time of King Louis of France, Sun with court of stars in fields of azure, When the fortresses filled with fragrance The regal and pompous pink Pompadour? Was it when the beauty of her skirt took, With nymph fingers, dancing the minuet, And the rhythm of the measures continued, On the red heel cute and light foot? Or when shepherds of flowery valleys adorned their lambs with ribbons And heard, divine Tirsis of Versailles, the declarations of their knights? Was it in that good time of shepherd dukes, Of princess lovers and tender gallants, When among the smiles and pearls and flowers were the chambelanes' jackets? Was it in the north or at noon? I time and day and the country ignored; But I know that Eulalia is still laughing And her laughter of gold is cruel and eternal!
Boot, boot, beautiful girl
Boot, boot, beautiful girl, That precious necklace In which diamonds shine Like the liquid crystal Of the pearls of morning dew. From the pocket of that satyr The gold came out and the evil came out. Boot, boot that snake That wants to strangle you Coiled in your throat Made of snow and coral.
It is something formidable that the old race saw: Robust tree trunk on the shoulder of a wild and hardened champion, whose beefy mace wielded the arm of Hercules or the arm of Samson. By helmet his hair, by chest his breastplate, could such a warrior, of Arauco in the region, Lancero of the forests, Nemrod that all hunts, Desjaretar a bull, or strangle a lion. He walked, he walked, he walked. He saw the light of day, He saw the pale afternoon, he saw the cold night, And always the tree trunk on the back of the Titan. "The Toqui, the Toqui!" the moved caste cries out. He walked, he walked, he walked. The dawn said: "Enough," and the high front of the great Caupolican was raised.
Mine: that's your name. What more harmony? Mine: daylight; Mine: roses, flames. What a smell you spill In my soul If I know you love me! Oh my! Oh my! Your sex melted With my strong sex, Melting two bronzes. I sad, you sad ... Do not you have to be Mine until death?
The subtle verse that passes or perches
The subtle verse that passes or perches On the woman or on the rose, Kiss can be, or be butterfly. In the fresh flower the subtle verse; The triumph of love in the month of April: Love, verse and flower, the gentle girl. Love and pain Flattery and anger. Herodias laughs on red lips. Two executioners are there in the eyes. Oh, knowing how to love is knowing how to suffer! Love and suffer, suffer and feel, And the kissing ax that has to hurt us ... Rose of pain, feminine grace; Innocence and light, divine corolla! And fatal aroma and cruel thorn ... Deliver us, Lord, of April and the flower And of the blue sky and the nightingale, Of pain and love, deliver us, Lord.
The princess is sad, what will the princess have? Sighs escape from his strawberry mouth That has lost laughter, that has lost color. The princess is pale in her golden chair. The keyboard of her sound code is mute; And in a forgotten glass a flower faints. The garden populates the triumph of the peacocks. Parlanchina, the owner says banal things, And, dressed in red, she flirts the jester. The princess does not laugh, the princess does not feel; The princess pursues the sky of the East The vague dragonfly of a vague illusion. Do you think of the prince of Golconda or of China, or in which he has stopped his Argentine float To see from his eyes the sweetness of light Or in the king of the Islands of the fragrant Roses, Or in which he is sovereign of the clear diamonds, or in the proud owner of the pearls of Hormuz? Oh! The poor princess of the mouth of pink Wants to be a swallow, wants to be a butterfly, Have light wings, fly under the sky, Go to the sun by the light scale of a lightning, Say hello to the lilies with the May verses, Or get lost in the wind over thunder sea. He no longer wants the palace, nor the silver spinning wheel, nor the haunted hawk, nor the scarlet jester, nor the unanimous swans in the lake of azure. And the flowers are sad for the flower of the court; The jasmine of the East, the nelumbos of the North, Of the West the dahlias and the roses of the South. Poor little blue-eyed princess! It is imprisoned in its golds, it is imprisoned in its tunnels, In the marble cage of the royal palace, The superb palace guarded by the guards, Guarding one hundred blacks with their hundred halberds, A whippet that does not sleep and a colossal dragon. Oh! Blessed is the hypsipyle which left the chrysalis. (The princess is sad. The princess is pale) Oh adored vision of gold, rose and ivory! Who will fly to the land where a prince exists (The princess is pale. The princess is sad) Brighter than dawn, more beautiful than April. "Shut up, shut up, princess," says the fairy godmother, "On a horse with wings, this is the way, In the belt the sword and in the hand the azor, The happy knight who worships you without seeing you, And who comes from afar , victor of death, To light your lips with his kiss of love! "
You are mine, you are mine
Beautiful girl you humiliate me With your big, beautiful eyes: They are for them, they are for them These soft rounds. They are two suns, they are two llamas, They are the light of the clear day; With your fire, my girl, The inflamed hearts. And contemporary authors They say that there are eyes that ignite Certain sparks that ignite Guns that break skulls.
Blessed is the tree that is barely sensitive, and more hard stone because it no longer feels, for there is no pain greater than the pain of being alive, nor heavier than conscious life. To be, and not to know anything, and to be aimlessly true, And the fear of having been and a future terror ... And the sure terror of being dead tomorrow, And suffering for life and for the shadow and for What we do not know And we hardly suspect, And the flesh that tempts with its fresh bunches, And the grave that awaits with its funeral bouquets, And not knowing where we are going, Or where we come from.
When you get to love
When you get to love, if you have not loved, You will know that in this world It is the greatest and deepest pain Being at a happy and unfortunate time. Corollary: love is an abyss of light and shadow, poetry and prose, and where the most expensive thing is done That is to laugh and cry at the same time. The worst, the most terrible, is that living without him is impossible.
To Margarita Debayle
Margarita, the sea is beautiful, And the wind carries a subtle essence of orange blossom; I feel In the soul a lark to sing: Your accent. Margarita, I'm going to tell you a story. This was a king who had a palace of diamonds, a shop made of the day and a flock of elephants, a kiosk of malachite, a great mantle of tissue, and a gentle little princess, so pretty daisy, as pretty as you. One afternoon the princess saw a star appear; The princess was naughty and wanted to go catch. He wanted her to make her Decorate a pin, With a verse and a pearl, And a feather and a flower. The primrose princesses look a lot like you: They cut lilies, they cut roses, They cut stars. They are like that. For the beautiful girl left, Under the sky and over the sea, To cut the white star That made her sigh. And he continued on his way up, By the moon and beyond; But the bad part is that she was going without dad's permission. When he was back From the parks of the Lord, He looked all wrapped in a sweet glow. And the king said, "What have you done? I've searched for you and I didn't find you; and what do you have in your chest? The princess did not lie. And so, he told the truth: "I went to cut my star To the blue immensity." And the king cries out: "Didn't I tell you that the blue should not be touched? What madness! What a whim! The Lord is going to be angry." And she says: "There was no attempt: I left. I don't know why. By the waves and in the wind I went to the star and cut it." And the dad says angrily: "A punishment you must have: Go back to heaven, and steal it. You will now return." The princess is saddened by her sweet flower of light, when she then appears smiling the good Jesus. And so he says: "In my countryside That rose I offered him: They are my flowers of the girls That when they dream they think of me". The king saw bright clothes, and then made four hundred elephants parade on the seashore. The little princess is beautiful, because she already has the pin in which they look, with the star, verse, pearl, feather and flower. Margarita, the sea is beautiful, And the wind carries subtle orange blossom essence: Your breath. Since you will be far from me, Guardian, girl, a gentle thought To which one day I wanted to tell you A story.