To my dear Peter makes some long ago gave me this beautiful poem, exalted by the story of José Hierro. Share and their gift
this moment to breathe deeply. Pedro
To you I hope your family, climate, economy, and your students are very good.
Salute!
This house is not what it was.
In this house there before
lizards, pitchers, sea urchins,
painters, clouds, honeysuckle,
wave folded poppies,
smoke of bonfires ...
This house is not what it was.
was a box guitar.
never spoke of fibroids, futures,
of past, of distances.
never struck anyone
the drone of the serious tone: "We want,
love you, I want to, we want ..."
could not be solemn,
as what they had thought then
the cat with his green suit, the tortoise
, white mice, sunflower
acromegalic ...
This house is not what it was.
has begun to walk, step by step.
slowly being abandoned.
Had burned in pomp, all
would run to save.
But this gives us time for everything:
to pick things up now noticed that there were
;
to say goodbye, courteous,
to go, indifferent walls
coughing, which cast its shadow
oleander,
shadow and ash daily.
This house was first stranded on a beach.
then sailed a deeper blue.
sang the crew. Nothing could be against it
hours and gales.
But now dissolved, as
a sugar cube in water. What think the cat
feudal
to know that he has no soul;
and garlic, what they think Sunday
garlic, which
think a barrel of marc
thyme, lavender, when
look in the mirror and see
his face covered with wrinkles.
will they think when they know who were forgotten
proof of his youth,
the sign of eternity, the lightning rod
death.
This house is not what it was.
compassionately, at night,
still chocked.
Author: José Hierro.
Photo: fotosbuzz.com
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