quisiera escribir yo...
... pero todavía no puedo.
Que lo diga Eliot, entonces. Con este tramo que tanto le gustaba:
What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make and end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from. And every phrase
And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
Taking its place to support the others,
The word neither diffident nor ostentatious,
An easy commerce of the old and the new,
The common word exact without vulgarity,
The formal word precise but not pedantic,
The complete consort dancing together)
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
Every poem an epitaph. And any action
Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat
Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.
We die with the dying:
See, they depart, and we go with them.
We are born with the dead:
See, they return, and bring us with them.
The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree
Are of equal duration. A people without history
Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails
On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel
History is now and England.
***
You held this to us as an advice.
We shall not forget and thus we shall also learn to place this precise day, December 6th, 2007, within history’s pattern of timeless moments.
Que lo diga Eliot, entonces. Con este tramo que tanto le gustaba:
What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make and end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from. And every phrase
And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
Taking its place to support the others,
The word neither diffident nor ostentatious,
An easy commerce of the old and the new,
The common word exact without vulgarity,
The formal word precise but not pedantic,
The complete consort dancing together)
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
Every poem an epitaph. And any action
Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat
Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.
We die with the dying:
See, they depart, and we go with them.
We are born with the dead:
See, they return, and bring us with them.
The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree
Are of equal duration. A people without history
Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails
On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel
History is now and England.
***
You held this to us as an advice.
We shall not forget and thus we shall also learn to place this precise day, December 6th, 2007, within history’s pattern of timeless moments.
Marcadores: melancolia, nostalgia, saudade
posted by jardinière at 11:43 PM
4 Comments:
Keka, qué difícil dejar que nuestras palabras fluyan. Se agolpan dolientes en la garganta y sólo salen en forma de espasmos y llanto. Qué dolor tremendo nos azota a todos, hermanados, desamparados y huérfanos. Como siempre son nuestros poetas quienes mejor pueden decir lo que sentimos.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Te mando muchos abrazos de pura solidaridad.
Gracias por el comentario que dejaste en mi blog.
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