"CRAFTSMAN'S DAY"
With all that in our hands and some elements, transform matter into our work, crafts, share, besides the daily bread, the beauty of wood transformed into a statue, a figurehead in y. ..
STATUE A BOW
(Elegy)
In the sands of Magellan navigator
took thee tired, still under the storm
many times your chest and bend
sweet dividing challenged her nipples.
again I woke up on the South Seas, but now
were the passing of the dark, corners,
like wheat and metal guarding
at sea, surrounded by ocean night.
Today you are mine, the giant albatross goddess
brushed his stature extended in flight, like a blanket
music
run in the rain for your blind and wandering wood lids. Rosa
sea, purest bee dreams, almond
woman from the roots of an oak
populated by
songs did you form, foliage force nests
mouth of storms,
delicate sweetness that would conquer the light with his hips.
When angels and queens who were born with
were filled with moss and slept for the immobility
honored dead,
you went up to the bow of the ship
thin and wave angel and queen and, shaking the world were.
The thrill of the men up to your noble
breasted coat apple
while your lips were oh sweet!
dampened by other kisses worthy of your mouth wild. Under
strange night your waist let the weight fall
pure
ship waves in the dark cutting a path
magnitude of fire knocked down, phosphorescent groups.
Wind opened the box in your curls stormy
the metal unleashed her moan,
and in the dawn light I was shaking
in ports, wet kiss your crown.
sometimes stopped on your way
sea and the boat shaking down her side,
like a thick fruit that breaks off and falls, a sailor dead
welcomed
foam and pure movement time and the ship.
And only you among all the faces
overwhelmed by the threat, a pain deep in sterile
received sprinkled salt on your skin, your eyes kept
and salty tears.
More than a poor life in your arms
slipped into eternity mortuary water, and rubbing
you got the dead and the living
spent your wooden heart marina.
Today we picked up from the sand your way.
the end, my eyes were intended. Sleep
perhaps asleep, perhaps you are dead, dead
:
your move, at last, has forgotten the splendor whisper wandering
and closed their journey. Iras
sea, the sky blows
have your haughty head crowned with cracks and ruptures,
and your face like a snail rests
with injuries that make your face balanced.
For me your beauty keep all the perfume, all the acid
wandering across her dark night.
And in your chest steep lamp or goddess, turgid
tower, still love, live life. You sail
me collection until the day they drop
in what I am in the foam.
Pablo Neruda, Chilean poet.
Aristotle said ...
MUCH WORK WITH WHAT YOU GET, THE MORE YOU LOVE.
We love our work, the fruit of our efforts, our daily task.
Have a beautiful day!
Susan
0 comments:
Post a Comment