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Guide Bandera en el exilio (Ventana abierta) (Spanish Edition)

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David Mark Weber born October 24, is an American science fiction and fantasy author. He was born in Cleveland, Ohio. Weber and his wife Sharon live in Greenville, South Carolina with their three children and "a passel of dogs". Previously the owner of a small advertising and public relations agency, Weber now writes science fiction full time. Many of his stories have military By frequently placing female leading characters in what have previously been seen as traditionally male roles, he has explored the challenges faced by women in the military and politics.

In his writing, he creates a consistent and rationally-explained technology and society.


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The most popular character he has created is Honor Harrington. Her story, together with the "Honorverse" she inhabits, has been developed through a series of 12 novels, four shared-universe anthologies, and two sub-series. The series has over 3 million copies in print, and more than thirteen of Weber's titles have appeared on the New York Times Best Seller list. A lifetime military history buff, David Weber has carried his interest of history into his fiction.

He is said to be interested in most periods of history, with a strong emphasis on the military and diplomatic aspects of it. Weber started writing in fifth grade. His first published novels grew out of his work as a war game designer for the Task Force game Starfire. She founded the group fuegodeluna. She participates in different recitals, international festivals and book fairs.

Dominican writer, professor and cultural activist, who has lived in New York since Galan has been a Spanish Professor and others courses at the U. Currently, he teaches at York College. He has published: Los Cuentos de Mount Hope novel, , 2nd ed. His poetry collection Amor en bicicleta was awarded the Premio Letras de Ultramar Diariamente caen alfileres sobre su claridad, bombas de humo, Incienso. Una bicicleta rueda sobre la tarde en busca del amor. She has worked as an actress, a translator, a journalist, and, from to , a diplomat for the Dominican Republic in Mexico. She holds a Ph.

Sweet almonds half-chewed by the sun fall onto rugged reefs, mix with dry branches and leaves aged gold. The sky wakes like soft lavender spreading over the purple sea. From the cosmic womb, two giant whales spring up while ahead of them a coveted mate quietly floats. A fifty-foot black mass, she spouts occasional geysers, echoing the shush of foam across the serried waves.

Under the sky, competition begins. For hours, day and night, Howls, shrieks, and moans make strange water songs; she sways majestic, slow, flipping over the surface, turning over and again, until the loser is decided, and she and her winner smoothly dive to the depths, away from light and the curious eye. Rossalinna Benjamin, Dominican Republic, Poet and educator. El aaaaahhhh!! Retired professor of the University of the State of Mexico. Between and , editor of 80 editions of the first stage of the literary magazine tunAstral.

In some far-off place. The many-petaled flower. We many petals. He felt strong. You saw her growing. It seems that when. There are afternoons. You write a poem. Patricia Ariza is a poet, playwright, director, stage designer and social and feminist activist.

During her youth she took part in the Nadaismo movement. This was the first alternative theater in Colombia. Ariza distinguishes herself in the theatrical world for her special approach which focuses on promoting social interaction and reducing conflicts. Her book Hojas de papel volando , received a National poetry award in Colombia. Inside, some gestures remain which I go over in minute detail.

On the second floor is the manner, intact, in which my father grasped a hammer. Closer, in the kitchen the grace with which my mother cut onions. In the dining room and on the staircase the nighttime footsteps of my uncle who was crazy. And in the windowpane, even now, the eyes of a girl with the fear of leaving. A todos nos amamanta el tiempo. El abrigo de la muerte. Y el teatro desaparece versos verdaderos.

Nadie escucha. Abanico abierto.

Bandera en el exilio (Flag in Exile)

Despuntando letras encima de mi sexo. Palabras quebrantan ventanas, libros y puertas penetradas por solemnes huidas. Gime el presente. Y agudiza. Plumas y taparrabos los hemos sacado para ser objetos, orgullos. Diferencia entre primaveras y soles… que se esconden tras frases bien dichas. Born in Brooklyn, Tonia Leon has written poetry since she was a child. Her poetry, prose and in English as well as Spanish has been published here and abroad. Her poetry reflects her passions: ecology, trees, music, Mexico, and social justice to name just a few. She is currently working on a second chapbook and translations of poetry from Spanish to English.

Tonia lives on Long Island. No existen en Nueva York. Recently, She traveled to Havana, Cuba, by invitation, where she presented her work in Casa de las Americas. She is currently a guest curator for the Museum of American Poetics and assistant editor of Eco-Poetry. Who could detain me with useless illusions when my soul begins to complete its work —Julia De Burgos. Her poetry was translated in Catalan and German and it is a subject of academic studies by universities of Italy, Chile, Argentina y Peru and the European Union.

She has given conferences in Harvard, Columbia and around the globe. Is there no solace In this life? I see the sky Tormented By my departure. She studied statistics and sociology in the Universidad Autonoma of Santo Domingo. Eres enojo liviano, llanto y congojas compartidos. Lluvia mustia, granizo rojo, te de bayahonda y cadillo. Mujeramigahermana, te admiro en tu quehacer, todo fluye, todo queda, no estas sola. Nos une un brindis vigoroso, en copas de cristal, rebosantes de miel, templadas en la fragua de la esperanza y al amparo de solidaridades anaranjadas de un atardecer.

Miguel Falquez-Certain Barranquilla, Colombia has been living in New York City for four decades, where he works as a multilingual translator and writer. The Book of Trees How to tell chestnut from sycamore or rowan from beech or fir? Walking with my head buried in the book of trees, I fail the test of cluster of five leaves, mottled edge, berries or long pod. The Scots have river, firth, burn, loch and sea. I learned to swim in the shallows of the Arabian Gulf, spent summers near the Indian Ocean. Is it memory that we gain or remembering what we once knew whispered, before the fairy tale and childhood rhyme?

A curly worm sheathed in a miniature coat of armor. The rattle of a metal gate being drawn. I never told anyone about the summer I dropped that pill bug into the gutter in front of our house. The clarity of the memory alternates between murky, sharp, impossible to see the truth, the depth too unfathomable.

Maureen H. Altman was born in Georgia, U. Altman is an autodidact in poetry. Encuentro , amor, vida, tiempo … is her first poetry book, published by Urpi Editors in Matices is her second poetry book, published in by La Ovejita Books. Both books were printed in New York. As an artist, Altman recently participated in group exhibitions in Lima and Rio de Janeiro and is preparing a group exhibition sponsored by the Peruvian Embassy in New York, , as well as a solo exhibition in at The Annex, New York.

Currently, she directs Educa. Arts, program designed to educate through art, poetry and creative writing. Your eyes like breeze, lay crossing the road from the path of truth calling the morning for its glance…. Eyes covering, eyes on hold, eyes shocking, eyes at the end sign telling more than can be seeing and your eyes, are not gone…. I look with closed eyes at the station, at the wild, at the Ferris wheel, at times, your time is due, maybe, and my eyes reopen…. Destiny, who can see you? My eyes stay on those landscapes and the road closes them so airily, your eyes are seeing our passage forever….

As a playwright, he wrote El refugio awarded in Paz, guerra y exilio He is director of the online magazine Youkali www. One hundred times on And one hundred times below the bridges…. Today or maybe it was yesterday and before yesterday as well I have been displaced Thrown out received released thrashed hung torn out….

Cien veces encima Y cien veces debajo de los puentes…. He muerto cien veces como muere un perro Cien veces Sobre el asfalto Y cien veces debajo del asfalto…. She is a poet, writer, and translator. As a poet, she has published the collections, Distancias y destierros Sgo. In , her book Los arquitectos de lo imaginario was finalist of the prestigious award Ausias March.

This collection has been recently translated into English by G. Los traductores del viento had excellent reviews and won the Internal Latino Book Award Arrive with pride at your failures. Marina Oroza is a Spanish poet and writer who has also succeeded in the world of artistic performance and acting. She has participated in festivals, theaters, universities, foundations, and museums in Spain, France, Ireland, and Portugal. She also collaborates with visual artists and musicians. Some of her work has been included in national and international anthologies such as Poetas en Blanco y Negro Abada , and editorials in magazines and press.

She collaborates in an online radio elestadomental. Some of her poems have been translated to Catalan and English. Aura In reality that corner Is a quagmire of reincarnations Converted into mourning shrouds. In reality the shape of things Is a palpable aura, A soul, a hollow eclipse, A waterfall of frozen horizon With nothing to hide. En realidad esta esquina Es un lodazal de reencarnaciones Convertidas en fundas de luto. En realidad la forma de las cosas Es un aura palpable, Un alma, un eclipse hueco, Una cascada de horizonte helado Sin nada que ocultar.

Marianela Medrano is a Dominican writer and poet, with a PhD in psychology living in Connecticut since I will arise now, and go the city in the streets, and in the broad ways I will seek… whom my soul loves. Song of Songs Should I dye my hair red? My old old old hair? Red strands of curls to wrap around his waist and watch him gush forth dripping birthing love again and again. I have no fear of love of soaking in the viscosity of a deferred dream that strips me of my name Nameless I wander the streets dismantled. Should I dye my hair red to dispel the voice no longer calling me?

Should I wake up to darkness soaring like a kite in his hands? I will arise now, and go about the city in the streets, and in the broad ways I will seek… whom my soul loves. Mechones rizos que amarro a su cintura y le miro lanzarse hacia adelante goteando Dando a luz al amor una y otra vez. Margarita Drago is an Argentinean professor, poet and narrator who has lived in the USA since she was released from prison. She is the author of the poetry collection Con la memoria al ras de la garganta ; and the memoir Fragmentos de la memoria.

Fragments from Prison Luis Luna was born in Madrid, in It amazes you the heat, the uncertainty of the flame, the language of the smoke. The tense dialog from the cold and the twilight with the bodies close to the light, impelled to it as the bird to the edge. It summoned not by the force of necessity nor the practice but also for the beauty. Te sorprende el calor, la incertidumbre de la llama, el lenguaje del humo.

A ella convocados no por la fuerza de la necesidad ni la costumbre sino por la belleza. What matters is the image that arises in your memory the answer that vibrates in the empty hole of your hand. Linda Morales Caballero was born in Peru, but has lived in several countries.

Short stories: El libro de los enigmas With LAIA, she created a yearly international literary contest and Anthology, and developed literary circles and creative writing workshops. Last year she co-founded the Literary Group: Fuego de Luna. We swam against the current tied by our hands submerging in the bar among mermaids. Deep into the night, among drunks.

Deep into time… within the midnight prop craters. Through the waves of the glances I saw you passing through at once by all perspectives… from my stand point I saw your insides…. And so I loved you, but your confabulations started until a dragon erupted from my mouth the fire of a visceral and well known rage. My green desolation under the Manhattan planes pierced you from my pupils. I wished to tear you apart, and I did. Suddenly, you became hair, saliva, a diluted smile, a distorted image. The picture of the feared number…. The night ran like a river to drain its tentacles at the sea of the subconscious, to reveal you that your icons live in the hippocampus of my lost eyes… You were so afraid about so much of so much in me… that you madness turned into a scarecrow for children.

A game of chimneysweepers, the organ grinder on the shadowed corner… a life of invented nightmares. Tuve deseos de deshacerte, y lo hice. Poet, ensayist and narrator. Chemist, biologist and college professor. Her work has been included in anthologies and critical studies.

In she was awarded the first prize in the World Ecopoetry Contest. I feel the urge for a pocket planet To stroll upon it barefoot Unhurried and without schedules. A planet to be shared With trees and deer Caterpillars, butterflies and dolphins A planet with seas of medusas and crustaceans And the migrations from arctic flights As far as the Indian Ocean.

I survey the lengthening of a sigh And protect inside the pocket My planet of forests and mangrove swamps Voiceless in the air, peaceful in the cities. A planet whose people have green conscience Their hands determined to improve life And a soaring heart bursting by the edge of night. Siento ganas de un planeta de bolsillo para caminarlo a pie sin prisa y sin horarios.

Lena Retamoso Urbano Lima, is a P. Jorge Paolantonio. Catamarca, Argentina, Poet, narrator, playwright. A professor of Anglo-Saxon language and literature. Theatre critic. He resides in Buenos Aires since He has published thirteen books of poems, most recently: Baus [] y En este duro oficio [anthology, ]. Paolantonio also has six published novels, most recently: Traje de Lirio [] y Aguasanta [].

In the theatre he has seventeen pieces compiled in four volumes, most recently: Un dios menor []. He has lived in NY since Koki is a bilingual autor Gallego and Castilian.

Your exquisite body Sank in the tenuous water, While the moon fi ltered in With all its mysteries. The window blinds Played with the wind, And the tub embraced you With its arms of iron. The water forever Climbed up your skin With its tender swashing To break your codes. I was the gale Stirring your sails, I was the tsunami Shaking your tub.

At the end, however, time was Relentless, and I surrendered, Becoming harbor and seashore, To be the water in your bathtub. Also studied English and German. Also in , some of his poems have been included in the anthology, Solo para Locos Vol. While I write Someone agonizes Someone plants gardenias Someone unearths the bones of someone who wrote verses Someone sees the moon Someone with a face, with a name, with a tear rebuilds epochs on the sand And I, I carve holes in Time, Thinking myself the epicenter The sun of a galaxy that happens tied to my existence.

It eludes me that the others are suns to their own galaxies Inexperienced gods with a quill and a gas lamp in their chests predisposed to ceasing. While someone writes with blood and sighs their unrepeatable story I hesitate I expire I stop being. Mientras alguien escribe con sangre y suspiros su historia irrepetible yo vacilo yo caduco yo dejo de ser yo.

La muerte, al fondo de las cerradas puertas, canta. Sus manos grises huelen a naufragios y a cenizas. A poet, actor, writer and director, he is Associate Professor at the National University of Colombia. And when I thus had spoke I saw the dawn gleam bright And thro' my window came the day in floods of light. Ya volvieron las sombras profundas A reinar otra vez en mi alma! Ya sollozan de nuevo las cuerdas Vibrantes del arpa! Leve musa ideal, esplendente aurora del alma! Primavera inmortal ; esperanza!

Te esperan las sombras Profundas de mi alma, Y te anhelan mis hondas tristezas. It was she — it was she, the pallid muse ; It was she, the fair, sweet Hope, Who paused for a moment at my side. Like a m 'stic heliotrope, And then through the narrow window she fled In the gleaming rays of light, And away through the fields of painted air She wings her uncertain flight. How gloomy, how weary, how silent and sad Thou hast left me fugacious Hope ; The black clouds return to rule in my soul And again in the darkness I grope ; Again the vibrating strings of the harp Repeat their mournful lay, O, sweet delusive lark that flies Across my gloomy way.

O, shining — O, gleaming dawn of my soul ; O, fragrant enchanting flower ; Thou butterfly with the golden wings, Return to my lonely bower ; For I wait in my sorrow, immortal Hope, And silently long for thee To hasten and scatter the shades of my night And return that vision to me. Mar de la nada sin olas. In the unfathomable dome Where the shining stars do roam ; Where, tinted by the ether blue, Through an unknown avenue, Two adamantine planets keep Worlds of weary souls that weep Of bitter memories above.

Unhappy in their lonely love ; For separate shall their wand'rings be Through infinite eternity : Though ever in each other's sight They are forbid to e'er unite. In that inevitable hour In which our souls from earth shall fly Away to planets in the sky, Thou to one thy flight shalt take And I upon another wake ; While each upon a separate star Those souls forever parted are, And journey on their worlds of light But ne'er again shall they unite.

The years shall cease ; the age be spent : The adamantine stars be rent. And all things time will then absterse For dust will be the universe ; Creation shall to shades resolve. Knowing as I that in this earthly bourne All is sadness, bitterness and woe, And that there 's not a being whom we know That does not oer some lost illusion mourn ; Knowing that the joys for which we weep Are like unto a fraud, and nothing more, And all that 's sure, to which our minds may soar.

Is what allures to our eternal sleep ; My voice its accents can no longer raise To wish thee other years amid the brine In which thou strugglest, or other days Of suflfering. But yet this voice of mine Congratulation gives and endless praise To thee whose honesty will ever shine.

Enraptured in thy adoration, When thy thoughts shall be as mine, In my pure love and warm affection Where linked my soul was e'en with thine. When thou confid'st in my devotion My heart will ever happy be ; My love be boundless as the ocean And none e'er admire but thee. His connitions are so extraordinary and varied; the prisms under which one can study him, so different ; the ob- serv'ations to which his writings give rise, so multiple ; his poetic endowments, so exalted ; his thoughts so delicate, yet, at the same time so deep, that one would require a space vastly greater than that of a simple sketch to study his work with the extension and detention which, on account of its merit, it deserves.

The times of discords have passed, and to-day remain only peo- ple who love one another as those in whose veins the same blood flows, and who have a common origin, cannot help. But this indefatigable eagerness which dominated him, in order to acquire knowledge and explore the sciences, was no obstacle for his exuberant imagination to direct itself also with a lofty flight to the fields of literature and poetry ; a field in which he was not slow in reaping glorious laurels, and in which he would also have attained al undant fruits if a sad and premature death had not torn him from his friends, whose charm he was, aiul from his fatherland of which, with justice, he was the pride and orna- ment.

Of an untiring activity, and powerful inventive faculty, he in- filtrated his spirit and his intellectual vigor everywhere, especially into the youths that surrounded him, and succeeded in founding the literary society of " Netzahualcoyolt," in memory of the cele- brated savant and poet of Texcoco, in the time of the conquest ; a society which became a real academy in Mexico, and which ex- ercised in all the land a most honorable literary influence.

In this society he made his poems known. One of che first which then saw the light was the one dedicated to the " Philharmonic Society," at its in. But then occurred to him what happens to all new authors who have not a powerful protector to represent their work, be it good or bad. But this glory, it may be said, came late to the inspired poet. No one believed, however, that that 3'oung man, so full of life and hope, whose poems were the charm and admiration of his contemporaries, was so soon to follow the author of his days to the tomb, but thus, unfortunately, it happened.

On the 6th of December, , the day that until then was a day of rest for Mexican learning, the poet laureate, who had just brilliantly finished the fourth year of Medicine, took his life, overwhelming with grief the heart of his sorrowing mother and those of his nu- merous friends. Whatever the determiuing motives may have been for such a sad occurrence, for us it is beyond doubt that the principal cause was that in Acuna there were two distinct beings ; two antithetical principles which, like the poles of a voltaic batterj', repelled each other, and which, like these, had to determine the destroying explosion of the poet's existence.

An idealist of temperament, a dreamer, a true poet ; his earnest desires, his aspirations, his eagerness, are all un- dermined and destroyed by his materialistic studies, determining in him that order of illusions which lead him, as if by the hand, to the borders of the grave. What we say is very clearly manifested in his highly beautiful composition, " Entonces y Hoy.

The same contrast ; the same progressive despondency ; the same death of his illusions, can be noticed in comparing his two poems, " Esperanza," and "Nocturno. En nombre del amor, ante tus puertas. We will leave to the readers the pleasure of perusing some of his best productions, but will not pass over in silence his magnificent com- position, "Ante un Cadaver," which is, without dispute, the best one of his poems in the book.

In it Acuna shows himself, besides the original and most tender poet, the man of modern ideas, of civilizaiion and progresas, — although imbued with materialism, — and also in other pnesies that mind oppressed by sorrow, for which the body is nothing but " the prison which retains the soul in its sorrow," and which seems to carry with it the nostalgia of death. It causes admiration as well as sorrow, considering what he could have accomplished during a laborious life in which, hardly entered, he had already conquered a crown of brilliant fame.

The poetic significance of Manuel Acuna is very great. He represents better than any one the literary regeneration of Mexico after the war of intervention and of the empire. His activity ; his imagination ; his immense value, greatly influenced that juvenile generation which was to become the basis of the literary regenera" tion of his native land. Me dio un beso en la frente. Labitur ex oculis nuuc quoque gutta meis. One day while j-et upon life's youthful strands My father, holding my head between his hands And weeping at the same time bitterly.

Thus said : " Farewell, farewell, my son to thee! Henceforth another horizon shall arise And will present itself before thine eyes ; And thou shalt seek, and to the fountain flee Where to appease the thirst which burneth thee. Mas si el destino rudo Ha de darme el morir bajo tu techo. Impregnated were the breezes of the night With fragrance and murmurs wafting 'round me light And tranquil as the breath of a child that sings, Bearing, perchance, upon its feathery wings.

With tepid perfumes, which makes the heart rejoice The fleeting murmur and the loving voice Of mother's silent kiss upon my brow. Above the honored couch — deserted now. Farewell I cry! The fragments of the azure in which the blest Illusions of my happy childhood rest. Who knows if thou mine eyes again shall see? Who knows if death's farewell I send to thee? Saludan desde el fondo de sus tumbas Al recuerdo lejano. After waking from that supreme moment Of gloomy lethargy The night of absence unfolded Its impenetrable veil. Its starless shadows ; Its frosty atmosphere; — That odious blindness in which the absent one, Proscribed by love.

And thus from the hour-glass of my life Slipped the eternal hours Over my sad and dejected brow, Sounding as they spread in the distance Like a sweet strophe unfastened From the supernal harp of Hope ; Thus, when once in the moment In which the white flower of my delirium Unfolded its bud in the breezes ; When my dead faith trembled Under its funeral robes of affliction At seeing afloat, in the azure of the sky. The spirit of my home over the real ; When the last hour of sorrow Was on the verge of striking for me, And the mournful music of my song Was changing into music of convocation,.

My heart, like the faded flower Which opens at the smile of dawn, Awaiting the life of its rays, Also opened to fold its clasp Which was spread to receive the endearments Enclosing in the depth of its night [of love, The caresses of a corpse! Su mano me bendijo. Su pecho sollozaba. En el reloj terrible Donde cada dolor marca su instante. Hora negra en que la urna consagrada Para envolverte,!

On the immense clock Where each pain stamps its point of duration, Inflexible destiny Marked the vibrating cipher Of that impossible hour ; Sad hour in which the innermost sanctuary Of my dreams of glory Saw its altar abandoned ; Its day turned into a wax taper, And its worship into memories ; Gloomy hour in which the urn consecrated To enclose thee, O father, In the fragrant essence of affection. Was a dark tomb Where thou leavest only the remembrance To make its void the more infinite. Father forgive, because so much I cherished That in the loftiness of my love I believed [thee In it to give thee a shield.

Qt Forgive, because I struggle against a fate That could tear tne from thine arms. Over the honored cradle in which from child- The songs of night lulled me to sleep, [hood The blue sky floated, And always when I opened mine eyelids I found in that firmament two stars That smiled whene'er they saw me.

To-morrow when mine eyes I lift again toward the umbrageous space That fugaciously stirs above mj' cradle, Thou knowest, my father. That over that cradle there is a void ; That of those two stars I miss one. Thou succumb'st : — of the book of darkness I have not the knowledge or the key ; In the grave wherein thou slumberest I know not if there be room for love ; I know not if the sepulcher Can love life ; But in the dense obscurity that wraps My heart to sufi'er like a coward, I know there exists the germ of a spark Which at the remembrance trembles and glows ; I know that the sweetest of all names Is the name which I utter when I call to thee, And that, in the religion of my remembrances.

Thou art the god I love. A twilight advances Spreading over the transparent air The darkness of a night without dawn,. Father sleep : — my vibrating heart vSends thee its canticle and its farewell ; Towards thee it rises, and hovering Above the tombstone that seals Thy lonely grave, My love illuminates it, while over thee, and In the endless night of thy tomb, [above it, My spirit will be a star. Me espanta vuestra gloria resonando Entre ayes de dolor y entre lamentos.

Full text of "Mexican and South American poems (Spanish and English)"

Although it may be true your glory I admire, Yet me your glory but appalls, resounding Between the groans of anguish and of tears ; And not to you I sing whose laurels In blood were grown, And breathe the air of death ; Not unto you I sing, ye dreaded ones, Who frame the laws with the sword With no more right than that of might. Your names, exalted though they be, Yet quicken not the blood within my veins. The same my soul, when it desires to find The light of poetry. Seeks not its plentitude in the night. Y al encontrar la llama indeficiente De la verdad sagrada, Mi pecho entonces se electriza y siente, Y de mi lira tosca y olvidada.

Era la sombra : entre su negro manto X'egetaban los hombres. Vagando entre las nieblas De la noche sin fin de la ignorancia. The beings, in the image of God, were not then The Adam of the first day, But serfs, by Tyranny tied to her Triumphal car with an angry hand ; Living mummies which, on leaving the world To return to the hollo wne.

Bequeathed to their. Thus centuries after centuries passed, Leaving in their infinite tracks in the distance Naught but the shadows and horrid monsters Wandering in obscurity Through the endless night of ignorance. But suddenly the light of thought Illuminated, vividly and radiantly, The firmament of holy Reason ; And God appeared, beautiful and great. En vez de la cadena y del levita La figura grandiosa de Escobedo. Then it was when Knowledge rose Dispersing the shadows Which fled in confusion at her presence ; And then it was when Mexico saw In the accursed abode Of crime and fear.

In place of the chain and levite, The grand figure of Escobedo. Tremble not when remembering the history Of the place of iniquity Where the savage vulture of Ignorance Concealed its chicks and its nest ; Tremble not at the gloomy memory Of the unearthly dungeon Repeating the last lamentations Of the dying martyr. Already the den of crime is cleansed Of its foul stigma. And even infamy itself disappears Where the tracks of wisdom are imprinted : In place of the executioners And burning lead and poison, loo 1' m:m. Empezada por Cristo en el Calvario, Que redime y que canta en su santuario Los himnos del amor y la esperanza.

Sublime rendition, mighty mission Of him who suffers while soothing pain ; Of him who weeps and moans While drynig the tears of others ; Mission of charity and prosperity Begun by Christ on Calvary ; Mission that redeems, and sings in its sanctuary The hymns of love and hope. And if you long for the conquest Of the fadeless laurel of fame, Then raise your eyes to heaven Where there is One who sees and calls you.

And think not of the steep cliffs, Nor of the pointed thorn That pierces the foot which touches it. Relax not for a moment In your noble and heavenly career : Onward! For yet far distant Is the crown of roses which awaits you. The holy, the beloved Mother of those who fell, victors In their own fall. Was found among them, trembling and wounded By the greatest sorrow of sorrows.

On her pale visage still sparkled A tear of her deepest grief ; At her side arose. The last patriot already being vanquished. When they saw her sightless and staring eyes The Spaniards believed her dead, And between the unsteady flames of the Fire they threw her into the grave with her sons.

Sealed their defeat with their death ; It is I, the Complaint to whom no one listens, And the tears which no one heeds. My faith has told me that thy strength is mighty. That thy courage is great, and I come to see thee ; That in the eternal and trying patience With which for centuries unceasingly I battle, I know that thou wilt give me what I find not : — My mother who is here because I feel her presence. It was at this hour, and on a day Like this, on which we praise his memory.

When the old man spoke. Tus hijos ya no gimen Como antes al recuerdo de tu ausencia Ni cadenas hay ya que los lastimen. IO7 At this hour it was when the stone Rolled into pieces which sealed that tomb Where thou, like Christ, wast dead, Only upon the third day to arise. At that hour it was when the door Of thy home opened, and that saw thee in its bosom. With a supreme dread in its joy Lest thy apparition was not real.

And since that moment, and since that hour, Tranquil and without fears in thy heart, Thy dream is sheltered under a roof Where naught but pleasure weeps. No more thy sons will sigh, As formerly, at the remembrance of thy absence ; Nor are there chains to wound them now.

On their fertile fields there flows no more The blood of slaughter and strife ; And from peace, among gentle joys, Under a shadowless and cloudless sky. The flowers will not be ashamed to bloom Nor the birds ashamed to sing. Thou art great, and upon thy path A future of glory opens before thee With the sweet promise of history That thy sun will never set. Tread that path, and follow With the experience of thy lesson of the past ; Work and struggle until the task is finished Which thou hast commenced on thy return to ex- For yet in thy prisons something remains, [istence.

Something which flight cannot recover, And something of Spain in thy conscience. Que no es con sangre como el siglo quiere Que el pueblo aprenda las lecciones tuyas ; Que el siglo quiere que en lugar de templos Le des escuelas y le des ejemplos, Le des un techo y bajo del lo instruyas. IO9 I come to tell thee that it is necessary To kill that remembrance of the kings Which, concealed behind the confessional, Seeks to give thee other laws than thy laws ; That God exists not there where thy sons Disown thy love and thine affections ; That it is not he who pardons at the scaffold ; That it is not he of the altar and of the prayers ; That God is He who dwells in thy cabins ; That God is He who dwells in thy workshops, And who rises, present and incarnate.

There, where without hatred of duties, [bread. That thou shalt give it a roof and under it instruc- Thus it is that on thy brow Thou wilt be able at last to place the crown Which the future has destined for thee. He who knows thy heart, who divines In thee the holy mother of progress, And who to-day, before the remembrance of that In which one of her kisses was the aurora [hour Which sprang from the night through the darkness, Whilst the people weep in rapture, Comes to caress thee with another kiss.

And so! Already here thou art, after the impious struggle In which at last thou didst succeed in breaking The prison that chained thee to sorrow. Ex- amples of this kind are not infre juent in Spanish poetry. La madre es solo el molde en que tomamos Nuestra forma, la forma pasajera Con que la ingrata vida pasamos. II3 The light of thine eyes no more exists ; Thy vital organism inertly reposes And refuses to fulfil its office.

But no! For neither is nothingness the point at which we Or naught the point at which we die. For molded after our parent We travel through this ungreatful world In our transitory shape. Neither is this the first shape That clothes our being, nor Will it be its last when it dies. Now thou art lifeless : but a short time And thou wilt return to earth and its bosom Which is life's universal focus. Meanwhile the fissures of thy grave Will see the larva converted into a butterfly, Rising from its open depth, Which, in its endeavors of uncertain flight, Will go to the unhappy couch of thy dear ones To bear them thy greetings of the dead.

And in the midst of those interior changes Thy craneum, filled with a new life. Instead of thoughts will yield flowers, In the calyx of which will shine concealed, Perhaps, the tear with which thy loved one Accompanied the farewell of thy departure. The tomb is the end of the journey, For in the tomb is where the light of our Imprisoned spirit remains dead ; But in the abode, at whose door Our breath dies out, there is another breath That wakes us again to life. Cambia de formas ; pero nunca muere. But there, where the mind is exhausted And the organism perishes, right there [forth.

One yields to the history of justice A name, carelesslj- and indifferently, Whether that name become eternal or die. He gathers only the clay, And changing the forms and the object He charges himself that it live eternally. The tomb keeps only a skeleton. But life, in its funeral vault, Proceeds to nourish itself in secret ; For at the end of this transitory existence, To which our anxiety so much adheres. Matter, immortal as glory, Changes in forms, but never can die. There were three, but England Again launched herself into the waves, And the Spanish vessels Sailed again to this land.

Only France exclaimed : "Let there be war! She rose at once to establish The right of the stronger. The dispute embodied in its obligation The redemption of thy affront. The flames of their cannons Broke forth in a yellow light, And the world beheld thy legions Entering the fierce combat, Only carrying for a shield The shield of their hearts.

In thy hand arose the sword And in thy conscience the design. IV Since in the orient shone The light of that eternal sun Whose pure and delicate ray Approaches to kiss thy brow, Thy independent banner Floated on the mountains While the hostile armies Raised their flag in anger Which was waving haughtily With the splendor of their exploits.

V And the hour arrived, and the sky. Clouded and darkened. Disappeared, concealed As in the folds of a curtain. Death spread his wings Over the frightened land, And between the terrified P'renchman And the furious Mexican, Arose the mighty war-cry Shaking the earth. VII i Tres veces! Vio asomar sobre otro cielo Y en otro mundo la gloria. Gave thee a soldier in every man And a hero in every soldier.

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VII Three times! And gazed upon her banner, Stained and gory. She saw the illusions Of her victory lost, And in spite of her strife. And in spite of her eagerness. She saw glory dawning In another heaven and in another world. VIII That which, in the unsteady mist That floated over the country, And in the vapor which rose Beneath the path of the breeze, Was for thy innocent heart Its most beautiful smile ; Its most eloquent song To sing on thy journey, And its most beautiful crown To place on thy brow. La era noble y duradera De la gloria y del progreso, Que bajan hoy, como un beso De amor, sobre tu bandera.

La que en la dicha infinita Con que en tu suelo la clava. Since then, my native land. Thou hast entered a new era, The noble and lasting era Of fame and progress Which descends to-day, like a kiss Of love, upon thy standard. X Over that blessed banner Which to-day the people, Who in turn are stirred in their affections, Come to cover with flowers. And who, in the boundless happiness With which they plant it in the soil, Swear to thee, gallant and brave. As once before the Frenchman, Sooner than see thee a slave, My native land, for thee I die.

I Pues bien! I Well, then, I am compelled to say that I adore thee ; To tell thee that I love thee with all my heart ; That there is much I suffer, and that much I weep ; That more I can not bear, [thee, and at the cry in which I implore I entreat thee and speak in the name of my lost illusions. II I want you to know that already many days Have I been ill and pallid from so much lost sleep ; That all my hopes have already died ; That my nights are dark — so black and gloomy That I know not even where the future is fled. IV I understand thy kisses are never to be mine ; I understand that in thine eyes I ne'er shall see myself; And I love thee, and in my mad and ardent deliriums I bless thy frowns ; I admire thy indifference.

And instead of loving thee less I worship thee much more. V At times I think of giving thee my eternal farewell ; To blot thee from my memory and drown thee in my passion ; But if all be in vain, And my soul forget thee not, What wilt thou that I do, part of my life, What wilt thou that I do with this — my heart? The sun of the morning behind the belfry, The torches emitting sparks, the incensory smoking, And there, open in the distance, the door of my home.

VII How beautiful it would have been to live beneath that roof, We two united always, and always loving each other ; Thou alway enamored ; I always contented ; We two a soul in one ; we two a single heart ; And between thee and me, my mother like a god. VIII Imagine thou how beautiful the hours of such a life! How sweet and beautiful the journey through such a land! And I dreamed of that, my holy betrothed, And when upon it delirating with my trembling heart, I thought to be good for thee, and for thee only.

X Esa era mi esperanza. I33 IX Well knows God that this was my most beautiful dream ; My anxiety and my hope ; my happiness and my joy. Well knows God that in nothing did I abridge my diligence, But to love thee much within the smiling home That wrapped me in its kisses when it saw my birth. Is opposed the deep abyss that exists between the two. FAREWELL TO After fate has plunged me into the anguish Of the tree that dies, groaning with pain, Tearing one by one the flowers and the leaves That sprang from thy love with the kiss from the skies ; After my branches, broken under the weight Of snow upon snow Unceasingly falling, And my glowing life has frozen at the kiss Which the angel of winter gave me on his way ; Then thou must likewise depart from me In search of other bowers, And in search of other skies, For thou shalt arise from thy nest ; shalt arise and leave me.

Not hearing my entreaties or bidding me farewell. In them I made thy lovely nest in which thou didst sleep, Trembling in the restlessness of love and happiness, And the nights and days found thee therein. Ever happy with my love ; I ever loving thee. Thy parting is an anguish that fells me to the ground.

Already I feel the storm among my branches. And, frozen and trembling, my yellow leaves Are snatched and shiver, and fly and depart. Es fuerza que te alejes. To-morrow, when my gloomy and brief life shall end, Yet thy only remembrances will pant over that tree. Thy parting is a pain. Thou knowest well the story Of the song and the nest, my sweet departing dove : The nest is Remembrance and the song.

Oblivion ; The tree is the Forever, and the bird, the Nevermore. Then farewell! The last plaint of that hymn, sung by both. Thou departest, and already thy wings take flight ; Thou departest and leavest me, my dove ; farewell, farewell! Ese era el cuadro que, al romper la noche. Mezclaban la torcaza y los zentzontlis, Sus trinos y su voz. La madreselva alzando entre las rejas Su tallo trepador. This was the picture which, as night tore Its veils of crape, The tepid rays of the sun Illuminated, crossing the windows : A roof, just half opened.

So that God might enter ; A pale and smoking lamp Shining in a corner. And between the souls of the two spouses, Like a bond of love, A cradle of osiers with a child Just born — 'T was I! Resting upon the rough cornice, All two by two. The swallows, near the gray nest, Raised their songs ; Whilst at the door of their cages, Trembling with sorrow, The wild pigeon and the nightingales Mingled their trills and their voice. The honeysuckle, sending up between the Its climbing stock, [iron grate Interlaced its branches and its leaves In graceful confusion, Forming a curtain in which there was.

Mientras mi padre en el sencillo exceso De su infinito amor. My mother, who is living yet, Since I am living, Lulled me in her arms, sighing With happiness and emotion. While my father, in the simple rapture Of his infinite love. Gave me caresses, of which, later, I was robbed by his absence. And for which I do not yet paj- him At the tomb wherein he now slumbers. I was the cherished form of the loving dream Which enraptured both, In that home, and on that day Of enchantment and blessing.

For my honored cradle, an innocent ; For the world, a sorrow ; And for those good souls, A third heart. Y en vano de que el llanto y sus sollozos Dejen de ahogar mi voz. Como en el fondo de un sepulcro antiguo Las miradas del sol. I45 In vain I try to prevent my grief and its From drowning my voice, [sobs For alone, and facing all the memories Of that time which has fled, My soul remains a sanctuary whose ruins Without light and without God.

Under the sky that extends existence From the cradle to the pantheon, In each heart beats a world. And in each world a sun. What will become of this world of my What will become of my heart? II En la tumba donde flota Tu sombra augusta y querida Descansa muda y dormida La lira de tu alma, rota De sus cuerdas ya no brota Ni la patria ni el amor ; Pero en medio del dolor Que sobre tu losa gime Ivse silencio sublime, Ese es tu canto mejor. My offering upon the altar. II In the tomb where hovers Thy august and beloved spirit Lies broken, mute and asleep.

The lyre of thy soul. Its chords will never more resound For fatherland or love, Except in the midst of sorrow Which sighs over thy marble-stone ; That sublime silence Which is thy grandest song. Sin ver en su desacierto Y en su crueldad olvidando, Que un labio abierto y cantando Habla menos que el de un muerto. I49 III This the song that rises From the harp of patriotism ; This the same silence As liberty which sings, For in that holy conflict Where retrocession caused thee pain, When yielding under the weight Of that struggle which nothing Progress rose in joy [respects, Above the corpse of the poet.

Sacrificing thy glory he Believed his triumph more certain. Seeing not his mistake, And in his cruelty forgetting That words and songs are more mute Than the tongue of the dead. V From thy existence He early tore the budding flower, Destroying in it the pride Of the American lyre. Thy superior inspiration Revolved before his contemptible But thy exquisite pen, [infamy, Before breaking its flight, Took heaven for its page And wrote the eleventh of April. Proudly contemplates That if thy life was beautiful, More beautiful was thy death.

Nace el hombre, y al momenlo Se lanza tras la esperanza, Que no alcanza Porque no se alcanza el viento : Y corre, corre, y no mira Al ir en pos de la gloria, Que es la gloria una mentira Tan bella como ilusoria. How sad it is to live in a dream With a world that does not exist! And how sad To go on living and walking Without seeing in our deliriums Of reason, with our eyes, That if there are lilies in life There are many more thorns.

He sees not, while running as though After happiness and love, [insane That they are flowers Which soon fade, and pass away ; He sees not, when becoming enraptured With the happiness for which he longs. That happiness is a phantom Which flies away at the touch. Los goces nacen y mueren Como puras azAicenas, Mas las penas Viven siempre y siempre hieren ; Y cuando vuela la calma Con las ilusiones bellas, Su lugar dentro del alma Queda ocupado por ellas.

Porque al volar los amores Dejan una herida abierta Que es la puerta Por donde entran los dolores ; Sucediendo en la jornada De nuestra azarosa vida. Que es para el pesar "entrada" Lo que para el bien "salida. Y no mira el hombre triste Cuando tras la dicha corre. Que solo el dolor existe Sin que haya bien que lo borre.

The joys are born and die Like pure white lilies, But the sorrows Always live and always wound ; And when peace flies With the beautiful illusions Its place within the heart Remains occupied by them. Because when love flies out It leaves an open wound Which is the door By which sorrows enter ; Happening in the journey Of our unfortunate life, Which is for the sorrow, "entrance ; " That which is for welfare, "exit.

The sad man does not see, When he runs after happiness. That only pain exists Without any remedy to remove it. A SRA. I must say to thee farewell, For in the face of my duty, Which ordains the pursuit of my art. Against its obligations I am weak. Before uttering a work To give expression to that thought, The voice of my sentiment Would say a word to thee. And thus between the ill with which I And which in sadness plunges me, I long, for my own sake.

That thou shalt kriow I love thee much ; That enamored of thee Since before I knew thee I only came to see thee. Y tal vez en los amores Con que te adoro y te admiro. Perhaps neveimore in my ear Will resound in the morning The voice of the early bird That sings from its nest. And perhaps, in that love With which I adore and admire thee, These flowers that to-day I exhale Will be thy last flowers.

He may tear thee from mine arms, But never from my heart. Depon y arroja el duelo De tu tristeza funeral y yerta, Y ante la luz que asoma por el cielo En su rayo de amor y de consuelo Saluda al porvenir que te despierta. My soul, the poor martyr Of my sweet and cherished dreams, The wanderer from heaven that journeys With the light of a delirium before thine eyes, Finding upon thy path naught but briars, And feeling upon thy brow naught but thorns ; Shake off and leave the sorrow With which the shadow of grief envelopes thee.

Depose and cast aside the mourning Of thy gloomy and rigid sadness, And before the light that shines from heaven,.

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In its ray of love and consolation, Greet the future which awakes thee. Transform the moon of thy Eternal and dark night into a sun ; Renew the smiles that thou hadst In thy cradle to commune with the angels. Ya es hora de que altivas Tus alas surquen el azul como antes ; Ya es hora de que vivas. Under the dense and pallid cloud With which anguish veils my brow, Thon yet mayest dream, and 3'et mayest lyive for thy dreams forever.

The voice of that angel tells it to thee, Whose pure and celestial memory Is the only one among all the remembrances That presses from thee neither tears nor com- Its sweet and blessed voice [plaints. Which, when thy sorrow was yet young. Descended amid the songs of death, A messenger of love, to promise thee The august redemption of affection. I have seen it, my soul, tearing The dark clasp from the cloak of the mist, And enkindling at the light of its gaze Those lovely stars of night That announce the break of day.

I felt the voluptuous fragrance Of the pure crape which enveloped it ; I felt his kisses, and I felt That it trembled as it approached me. The return of the birds Announce to thee the end of winter ;. Greet the beloved sun That rises in the morning of thy love, And now that thy dove returns to its nest, Rebuild the nest for thy dove. There was a forest and a nest And in that nest a linnet Who, merry and trembling, Crossed the whole world After a cherished dream, And sowed his best notes In the tracks of his steps. And who gathered with them The stars while passing through the skies And flowers while going through the world.

Of the nest and the bower No one knows the history ; For the earth, in admiration, Left the story forgotten In writing that of the bird ; The history of the bird which, once Rising in its flight. Was, for my fatherland. The star most highly prized Of all its heaven ; The historj' of that bird from which man Will rob the gallant name, — And there is none 't will not astonish, — To change it into that Of the Mexican Nightingale.

Su historia. Porque al mirar sus destellos Resplandecer de este modo, Bien puede decirse entre ellos Que el nombre tuyo es de aquellos, Que nunca mueren del todo. Found on its beloved soil, Instead of those of its nest. The flowers from our hearts. Thy history, which the fervent people. In their most just obeisance. Come to respectfully adore With the glittering laurel Which to-day crowns thy bust. On that blessed monument. Great among the first. Is the page on which the Future ages will see Thy infinite glory written ; And which, united to the memory Of thy superior deeds.

Will rise like a history Speaking of thy glory To all the Mexicans, For seeing thus Its lustre shining Well may it be said among them That thy name belongs to those That nevermore can die. Bendita entre las benditas Noche de la libertad! Hora de triunfo en que el pueblo Al sol de la independencia, Dej libre la conciencia Rompiendo la oscuridad. At the blessed memory Of that sacred night In which my shackled fatherland, At last broke its bondage ; At the sweet remembrance Of that hour and that day, I hear within my heart Something like the song of a lute.

I feel the abundance of my emotions Breaking out in blo. Blessed night of glory That thus thou stirrest my spirit : Night of liberty, Blessed among the blest! Hour of triumph in which the people At the light of independence. Breaking through darkness, Left conscience free. Yo te amo. I come to unite to the tribute Which the people are eager to give My true Mexican song ; [thee, My true woman's heart. Otros sus llamas con furor respiran. How beautiful are thy heavens, my fatherland, Which, as the sapphire, are of purest blue. There thy brilliant sun doth make his circuit, And the white globe of the cold moon.

How grand and lofty are thy mountains! How they pierce into the skies! How fertile and how beautiful is thy soil! How magnificent thy horizon! Thine immense chains of mountains, Cleft by the deepest ravines, Are crowned with white frost, And from their brows rise the smoke of the cabins. A thousand frightful craters are seen On the summits of mountains and hills. Some remaining dormant and extinguished While others furiously vomit forth their flames. Globos de fuego arrojan de sus bocas.

Columnas de humo y grandes llamaradas, Ardiente azufre, arenas inflamadas, Negro betim y calcinadas rocas. Popocatepetel and Orizaba. Crush the ground with their enormous massiveness, And their cuspises of ice and lava Are enveloped in a dense cloud. There the deer, with antlered forhead. Cross the woods with graceful bounds. And among the pines and elevated cliffs The waters dash in torrents. How awe-inspiring are thine immense volcanoes With their ponderous rocks ; Among thy wooded mountains roar the tempest. And their stormy summit is a crater.

Globules of fire are hurled from their mouths ; Columns of smoke and grand flashes of fire ; Burning sulphur, glowing sands, Black pitch and calcined stories. Then the foundation of the blue mountains Trembles, and from this furnace The rude and tremendous shaking- Extends for a hundred leagues around. The great God of all nations said. When distributing His treasures over the land, " Let Mexico have silver and gold," And poured on thee His affluent gifts. Rich Africa, by the sun oppressed ; Europe and Asia, replete with grandeurs, Boast not the splendid treasures Of the fatherland of Moctezuma.

The Creator, in his goodness, Gave to Mexico an atmosphere both clear and calm ; Lovely waters, fertile lands. Green fields and famous cities. But alas! How beautiful to behold the tall cocoa palms Yielding to the weight of their rich fruit ; To see their flexible fans Waving in the breath of the light zephyrs. How beautiful to behold, in the season of flowers. The tall orange trees exhaling their fragrance Where the timid pigeons repose And the artless turtle-dove nestles. The thorny lime trees grow Beneath the rustling tamarinds ; And all around bloom delicate flowers, And all around sigh the great plantain trees.

En las selvas revuelan los zorzales, Merlas, tucanes de plumajes gayos, Encarnados y verdes papagayos, Tordos azules, rojos cardenales.