If you prostrate ten times, you get up
another ten, another hundred, another five hundred:
your violent falls should not be
nor, by law, there must be so many.
With the great hunger with which the plants
they assimilate the avaricious humus,
swallowing the rancor of affronts
the saints and the saints were formed.
Obesión almost asnal, to be strong,
nothing else the creature needs,
and in any unhappy one I figure
that the hooks of luck are nicked. . .
All incurables have a cure
five seconds before his death!
Do not give up, even won,
do not feel like a slave, not even a slave;
tremulo of dread, piénsate bravo,
and lashes fiercely, already badly wounded.
Have the tenacity of the moldy nail
that already old and mean, is again a nail;
not the cowardly cowardly stupidity
that his plumage relaxes at the first sound.
Proceed as God who never cries;
or like Lucifer, who never prays;
or like the oak grove, whose greatness
she needs water and does not implore her …
That bites and vocifere avenging,
already rolling in the dust, your head!
MOLTO PIU AVANTI!
Those who pour their loving tears
about the penalties that are not their penalties;
those who forget the sound of their chains
to file those of the others before;
Those who go through the world are delirious
handing out their love with full hands,
they fall, under the weight of their good deeds,
dirty, sick, tragic, … leftovers!
Oh! Never want to remedy wrongs!
Never follow compassionate impulses!
Have the hooks of Hate always active
the eyes of the judge always awake!
And when you throw yourself in the box of the dead,
despise the cries of the living!
MOLTO PIU AVANTI ANCORA!
The miserable world is a podium
where everything is stolid and feigned,
where each host keeps hidden
his true self, after the headdress:
Do not tell your truth or the most loved one,
do not show fear or the most feared,
do not think you've ever loved
for more kisses of love that you have given.
Watch how the snow breaks
without apostrophe his sunburst lip to the sun,
how the clouds crave the desert
without any of your anxiety trust …
Trema like hell, but laugh!
Life the hole life, but dead!
MOLTISSIMO PIU AVANTI ANCORA!
If instead of the stupid panthers
and the iron stupid lions,
they locked two skinny young men
in that fragile prison of beasts,
There would be no nights to lie
in the soft haystack of his mattresses,
no hope anymore, no reactions
the same as two placid tarts;
Like thoughtful, serious Napoleons
not like the bloodthirsty tiger and maula,
they would scrutinize his classroom
looking for the slits, not the keys …
Whatever you are, you already know:
to scrutinize the slits of your cage!
In pursuit of its level the river is launched
because of the great unevenness of the brambles;
the air is gale, and there are gales
by the law of the end, of the non-emptiness;
the most beautiful spike of summer
he does not dream of bread in the wheat fields;
the sweetest comb of combs
never declared: I am not mine.
And the sun, the sun father, the swift focus
that encourages life in Natura,
by heating the poles does not hurry,
nor deviate an apex either:
You will achieve everything, solemnly crazy,
as long as your stature allows it!
As one single star is not heaven,
not a drop that jumps, the Ocean,
not a rigid phalanx, the hand,
not a blade of straw, the holy ground:
your jail gymnastics, it's not the flight,
the sublime sovereign tramonto,
nor can it ever be a human longing
Your miserable personal longing.
What do the spheres know about the eternal;
from the storms of the sea, the drop;
of punches, broken phalanx;
of flour and bread, the straw of the ages …
Stop, for pity, pen you do not want
let the ilota abandon his weapons!
Pedro B. Palacios – Almafuerte
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