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Ask me anything   Tales from a girl near the center of the earth. Ando cerca de la latitud 60 y tengo algunos cuentos que contar. Arte.Foto.Poesia.Muerte.Saudade. Musica.Three Languages.


ConfidencialFueron jóvenes los viejos pero la vida se ha ido desgranando en el espejo y serán viejos los jóvenes pero no lo divulguemos que hasta las paredes oyen

-Mario Benedetti

Foto John Vachon
p.d. What happened to the youth of today?

Confidencial

Fueron jóvenes los viejos 
pero la vida se ha ido 
desgranando en el espejo 
y serán viejos los jóvenes 
pero no lo divulguemos 
que hasta las paredes oyen

-Mario Benedetti


Foto John Vachon

p.d. What happened to the youth of today?

— hace 2 años con 1 nota
#Mario benedetti  #jovenes  #viejos  #poema  #poesia  #the great depression  #argentina  #youth 
Anthem for Doomed Youth
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstruous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
-Wilfred Owen
foto source

Anthem for Doomed Youth

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?

Only the monstruous anger of the guns.

Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle

Can patter out their hasty orisons.

No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;

Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,

The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;

And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?

Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes

Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.

The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;

Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,

And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

-Wilfred Owen

foto source

— hace 2 años con 1 nota
#war  #wilfred owen  #youth  #poetry  #poem