martes, 29 de octubre de 2013


Get busy
pretend to be busy
proclaim to be busy
flaunt your busyness
parade with your busyness

Be busy
be important
disdain non-busyness
we need important people
we need you to be admired

Get busy
get successful
get outstanding
get celebrated
get world-class

Get busy
pretend to be important
proclaim to be distinguished
flaunt your success
parade with your trophies

Get busy
get dull
be a slave of your success
be unimportant
go on

Get busy

I will watch you from here.

martes, 22 de octubre de 2013

Reloj de arena

El tiempo se mide en soles, soles que circulan el cielo, que entran y salen de la bóveda celeste, que suben y bajan, soles que calientan.
El tiempo se mide en lunas, las que nos dieron luz, las que no estuvieron, en las que quisimos amar y amamos, las lunas rojas del atardecer.
El tiempo se mide en olas, las olas de las que huimos, en las que nos adentramos, sobre las que navegamos, las olas llenas de espuma y sal.
El tiempo se mide en palabras, las que aprendimos y olvidamos, las que susurramos y callamos, las sonoras y poderosas palabras que pensamos.
El tiempo se mide en caminos, los que andamos y los que evitamos, los que inventamos, los caminos que nos esperan y los que nos desesperan.
El tiempo se mide en ríos, los que nos traen agua y cantos rodados, los que nos arrastran, los fragorosos ríos que nos recorren por dentro.
El tiempo se mide en silencios, los que tememos, los que caen como truenos, los que nos juntan y separan, los suaves silencios que buscamos.
El tiempo se mide en miradas, las que ocultamos, con las que acariciamos y entramos, las miradas con las que vemos, entendemos y aprendemos.
El tiempo se mide en estrellas, las que caen y las que mueren, las que nos guían, las estrellas que nos cubren con su luz de soles lejanos.
El tiempo se mide en caricias, con las que buscamos y encontramos, con las que recorremos, las caricias que iluminan y nos abren los ojos.
El tiempo se mide en soles, lunas, olas, palabras, caminos, ríos, silencios, miradas, estrellas, caricias. El tiempo es arena, solo es arena.

El tiempo es un reloj de arena. 

jueves, 10 de octubre de 2013

Sonnet – To Science

Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car,
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?

jueves, 3 de octubre de 2013

The City in the Sea

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.

No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently—
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free—
Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls—
Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls—
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers—
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.

Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.

There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol's diamond eye—
Not the gaily-jewelled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass—
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea—
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.

But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave—there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrust aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide—
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow—
The hours are breathing faint and low—
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.