Printfriendly

sábado, 25 de febrero de 2012

Patrick Graham - El evangelio del mal

Ficha del libro
--------------------------------------------
Título: El evangelio del mal
Autor: Graham, Patrick
Editorial: Sudamericana S.A.
ISBN: 978-987-566-644-3
Nro. Páginas: 559
Traducción: Teresa Clavel Lledó
--------------------------------------------

El evangelio del mal
por Silvio Manuel Rodríguez Carrillo

El asesinato en serie de las monjas de la orden de las recoletas, que se repite a intervalos de tiempo desde el año 1348, ha sido considerado misterioso e irresuelto por la santa sede. La reaparición de tales hechos en “la actualidad”, es decir, finales del siglo veinte, y en territorio norteamericano, pone en movimiento nada menos que a los agentes del FBI. Así, por un lado la médium Marie Parker, agente especial de los federales, y por otro, el padre Carzo, exorcista de la orden de los jesuitas al servicio del Vaticano, aunarán sus peculiares habilidades para resolver los crímenes.

Por supuesto, hay un secreto, que en este caso es una mentira y que si saliera a la luz la cristiandad, tal como la conocemos, se vendría abajo. A partir de aquí comienza el riesgo del libro, en el sentido de que tal secreto debe ser de tal envergadura, que por una parte justifique la intensidad de las acciones llevadas a cabo por quienes buscan hacerlo público, como a las que realizan los que no quieren que sea develado. Aledañamente, el secreto en cuestión debe ser creíble para el lector, de manera que no se establezca un contundente “esto es fantasía”.

Los que han leído las obras de Morris West, o las de Dan Brown, ya estarán en antecedentes de ciertos detalles respecto de las políticas internas del Vaticano, de ahí que estarán más alertas a los detalles que el autor habrá de presentar, y que habrán de darle el toque de veracidad que una novela como esta requiere. Los que siguen por T.V. las actuales series policiales, también habrán de estar en posición de contrastar los hechos y procedimientos que se exponen en la historia. Para ambos públicos el autor tiene preparadas una serie de secuencias que superan pruebas de error.

Finalmente, y como cerrando el círculo, todo gira alrededor de una élite en cuyo poder estaría buena parte de la humanidad, cuestión esta que para algunos hoy día es ya indiscutible. Ahora, si se mira bien, los buenos contra los malos, la teoría de la conspiración global, y el tema de un secreto, constituyen un enramado que para constituirse en disfrute debe estar sostenido con sólidos detalles, es decir, con el tono de un autor comprometido en la historia que transmite. Y es aquí donde indudablemente triunfa el libro, en la manera en que es conducido y en su propuesta desafiante.

Cargado de una sucesión de escenas logradas con sencillez literaria, y de gran impacto; con capítulos breves engranados unos con otros; prescindiendo de metáforas y de cualquier adorno innecesario; y, sobre todo, recreando imaginativa y eruditamente varios hechos históricos, “El evangelio del Mal” asegura horas de lectura sin arrepentimiento. Recomendable para quienes están buscando algo de entretenimiento inquietante; para aquellos religiosos ortodoxos, y para los que van de sensibles ante hechos de sangre y violencia, no constituirá una experiencia agradable, mejor abstenerse. Es el primer libro que ha publicado Patrick Graham, y le valió el premio Maison de la Presse 2007.

And she wants

And she wants

I know and I accept
The night carpet
The way it becomes a bed
Its confident silence
And the trace you leave in it.

My hands know how to manage
The space without your hours
The dissatisfaction with which the dust
To my eyes remember your shadow
That is projected on the candle flames.

There is no comedy in the tacit verdict
From your voice not listened sometimes
When it’s very necessary
Not generating any kind of anxiety
When there is nothing to impede me of examining your sight.

In the lake of simplicity
Where there is no space for great vessels
The warm clarity of facts
Abstained to bright or give its heat
Everything happens and always includes you.

And then you go
And my hope is focused in your return
And in the way that I will embrace you then
While I feel an infinite anguish for this longing
That always asks and doesn’t obtain any response.

The castle built with cards
And the house of dolls
The knot that wants to stop a destiny
And the goat that doesn’t look for the mountain
There are other nights for the same days.

Since you ignore the magic you possess
In the cadence of each of your movements
The water that measures the wine
And the act of giving vacations to despair
It enfolds of fragility, without pretending any kind of conception.

Because there is something that you want
And in that something as years ago
It isn’t difficult for me to imagine that my name is there
For the persistence focused to accept and appreciate
That at least, if I am mistaken it will not be others mistake.

jueves, 23 de febrero de 2012

For me it is enough

For me it is enough

Any kind of threaten will stop you
Or any stimulus would make you return
The open trip already dwells in your thought
The days, all of them already lost their roughness.

The furious sight and the voice in calm
The weight knowing to belong to other places
With the slight comfort that perhaps
At some time we can converge in an idea

That it in a time was our own
To what was offered by one of us
The cold waiting room of emotions
And it surrounding structure
Where amplitude was still missing.

It’s already late and the term already expired
And again everything is seen virgin
In the beginning of what will be a new battle
Where the value of each thing will be better adjusted

At a price that implies, from one skin or another
Paying attention to ten thousand variables
That played their mode and plot
Participating as actors and not as decoration
That will be transmuted in the present story.

You will see it again at its right time
The old boldness
This time needing necessary intelligence
To cross the wall of circumstances

And the grave of disgraces that precedes it
So that finally you smile again
For the brief but unforgettable victory
A play of precision against the tyranny of effort.

And finally you already know
It is enough if they deny to me
So that my intentions display
It is enough that I suspect it
So that your possibility is affirmed

Because not having you is enough for me
Just to find the right excuse to conquer you.

martes, 21 de febrero de 2012

De hi d ai

De hi d ai

It seems that after a length of time
When your bosoms are relaxed
And your teeth are damaged
You would be less important to his eyes than today.

There something that says to you
And that something is the way he looks at you
The dimension of his desire
That marks the intensity of each one of his caresses.

Perhaps tomorrow the words will not be enough
Yours or his
As still your body searches a body
And not the encyclopedia you could never accomplish.

But it won’t be more than to endure
And at the end where time lies
The great conceptual structure
That must measure its strength in front of all.

And now, when the wine is still not sour
To see if you build moments like webbing a net
Sinking your eyes in the story of scarcities
It’s what each one wants to build as distinctive of his horrible flag.

They usually warn that little is what can be accomplished
As much it is pointed out
That the minutes that follows
Is decided in the previous one.

Everyone makes the decision to listen
To foresee or stop thinking
While the crickets sing their lust
Not being able to demonstrate it.

Sometimes the escape never exists
Mainly when you lose love
And the arm that wisely would cover your back
Waiting terrified the moment to apologize for his senility.

As you see, the epochs are usually different
As it’s written, an important thing is the companion
And another thing is companion, in the length of time
It is where some minds still confuse selfishness with self-centeredness.

The act of someone who tries to save
It’s differenced as a favor
That of one who wants to be saved
Different, when for pity
Of somebody who does all the necessary to do it.

And thus the tool and not the one who uses it
Only then the result more than the process
Because they wouldn’t have biography or epitaph
As one and another will fuse afterwards
And not before.

The falsehood of nakedness
The disgrace in pretending to test yourself
The turpitude in intending to capture a winged truth
As it rides the asinine force on a simple desire.

The bitterness of facts
The confirmation of the truth
Without the balsam of crying eyes
And the right actions like stones thrown by the past.

And the old legend of pride
The theory of honesty
And that of human nature
Just like if the older weighted
And it didn’t balance the younger .

The bubbling of mocking
And the tickling of fear
Tears the skin in the heels
They dream on the broken forehead by the rock.

However, after this time
It could be that it didn’t depend on forgiveness
But in demanding the other the same extreme attitude
For which someone decided his distance from the impossible.

But a languish and febrile “however”
As history and astrologists say
They are made up of salt and air
But they aren’t of bread or wine.

So that the worst is to guess right
And the tragic isn’t doing it
Until from the flesh
Someone during life, without saying
Touches with another, without remorse
The fire doesn’t depend on the air.

sábado, 18 de febrero de 2012

Consolation

Consolation

The objective implies a battle
And the battle clouds the objective
The other side of the shore
And the river that drowns in crossing it

Don’t say no to one who intends
But to his intentions
As one who offers his life
For somebody who will die anyway.

After the hospital
The scarcity again
In the intent to save the man
It is the hatred of the physician to other men.

The kiss for which it is paid a price
With one or other coins
Like the drunkenness attained
With one or another beverage.

For the idea of a gift
Or of the task
To see if it can be delivered
Without establishing prices

That thing wanted to be received
And bend the neck of the plot
That establishes physics
That tells the whole law.

And not because is in excess
Not because is abundant
But on the contrary
Because scarcity mentions it

Because in the arduous it isn’t the difficult
Neither is in the poor action of casting pearls before swine
- considering that in the abyss
Can only awake a sad smile
The image of some who finds value in a little stone -

But in the weary expression
For which the trophy is passed over
Like one who concede a story
Having been part of it
And doesn’t belong to it any more.

More streets or fewer streets
The morality of societies
The mark of educations
They are for the same chalice of incomprehension.

And the altar so beautiful
And the song so nice
And the body of the other
And the grave that waits for many.

As if it were unknown
That a scream isn’t more than a sound
That a word isn’t more than a miracle
And it results in consolation that nothing can ever be the same.

viernes, 17 de febrero de 2012

Eduardo H. Grecco - La bipolaridad como oportunidad

Ficha del libro
----------------------------------------
Título: La bipolaridad como oportunidad ¿Quién se ha subido a mi hamaca?
Autor: Eduardo H. Grecco
Editorial: Ediciones Continente
ISBN: 978-950-754-209-4
Nro. Páginas: 125
---------------------------------------
La bipolaridad como oportunidad
por Silvio M. Rodríguez C.

Oscilar entre la manía y la depresión pudiera ser una definición básica de la bipolaridad, pero que requiere de una mirada más profunda para poder acceder a la comprensión cabal de esta dinámica y sus consecuentes indicaciones. Así, considerar la bipolaridad como referida a pacientes neuróticos antes que como derivación de la psicosis, tratarla como una modalidad de funcionamiento en donde se dan la creatividad, la intuición y el éxtasis, y admitirla como una realidad en el modo de ser del bipolar en el mundo, constituyen los pilares sobre los que Grecco plantea la manera de encarar un mejor tratamiento terapéutico.

El libro está dividido en siete estaciones, en donde el autor describe los rasgos que caracterizan a la persona bipolar y qué hay detrás de cada uno de estos rasgos, cuáles y cómo han sido los procedimientos terapéuticos pasados, cuáles y cómo son los que él recomienda y, finalmente, una breve serie de indicaciones prácticas a aplicar en el día a día en cuanto a los pacientes. Hay que aclarar que como el libro trata de un enfoque, de una manera de entender la bipolaridad, no se explaya en tecnicismos aunque se mencionen aquellos que el lector interesado podrá ir consultando.

Dice Grecco “Así como un abrazo esquivale a 25 mg de Prozac, un acto creativo es una buena dosis de litio”, y luego “… por ejemplo, la serotonina - crecida en la experiencia amorosa, mermada ante la incapacidad para sofocar el miedo - puede traducirse, emocionalmente, en todo lo que no es amor es temor, es miedo… los psicofárcamos sólo anestesian ese dolor, nunca lo erradican”. Como se ve, es el enfoque planteado lo que vuelve particular al libro, y no el derroche estadístico de casos tratados en variadas circunstancias, ni una serie más o menos precisa de prescripciones farmacológicas aplicadas a los mismos.

Un punto importante que aborda el autor es el referente a lo que el terapeuta significa para un bipolar. Aquí, en lugar de marcar los límites que deben resaltar la línea entre el paciente y el profesional, nos señala el nivel de involucración afectivo y emocional que ambos protagonistas deben asumir en el proceso del tratamiento. Para recrear sus postulados, en esta sección Grecco se vale de citas de George Bernard Shaw y también de Jorge Luis Borges, adicionándole a su discurso calidez poética, y esa justeza expresiva que a veces se logra mejor con expresiones metafóricas propias de la poesía.

“La bipolaridad como oportunidad” es un libro ante todo ameno y claro, en donde aquellas personas que conforman el entorno cercano de un bipolar podrán encontrar más allá de la “explicación de la conducta”, las herramientas para comprender las potencialidades que esta encierra en uno y otro ciclo. En cuanto a los bipolares, pueden tender los puentes sin temor, porque es tal el cariño que irradia el texto, que hasta el más despectivo habrá de encontrarle aciertos incontestables. Así la invitación para darle una mirada a esta hamaca, que nos recuerda que mientras exista el mundo habrá días con sus noches.


jueves, 16 de febrero de 2012

Death and Life

Death and Life

Don’t say that you gnashed the teeth
That the rain impelled you to the night
That being able to keep you treasured
That from everything happening you extracted something.

They saw you running to battle
Your voice was heard trying to calm a scream
It is known that you complied with the law during the day
And that behind the door you hid what you wanted.

Don’t say that you have exposed yourself
That you didn’t consider what the others found
That you never respected the limits
You didn’t either of men, or their Gods or not even yours.

See that death is slow and sometimes mute
Not like the children who still trust
In one who bears the cane making them cry
And in one who cleans them with tenderness and freshness.

Don’t say that you have leaved
That you don’t belong to this world anymore
Only because you await a reward
That you were not able to get with your feet were sunk in the mud.

None of your laments remained unheard
Nobody ignored the wrinkles under your eyes
And each time that you supplied your intelligence with delicacy
It was registered until the before of that act.

See that life is slow and sometimes mute
Like the person who bears it
And not like those who believe in promises
Or in facts, which are those things that air reflects.

The difficult mystery of resistance
- Beyond the movables
Of any kind of conviction
Of any riddle at the beginning or the middle of the years -

It will make that silence beats
Finding a fissure in destiny
For which it would have to evade, if is possible
The best you have
That is the story of your doubts defeated by each step.

martes, 14 de febrero de 2012

No hi d ai

No hi d ai

Being able to visualize
And to draw with firm hand
The curve that on wavy cliffs
It drives to its own inaccessible end.

Aware of the pockets in jackets
And of the palms that during their infancy
Never knew of thirst or suspected loneliness
Because at that time, in that plenty time

It was prepared the necessary vitality to face emptiness
Like the milk of the mother who didn’t have
It was sealed the promise of certain later abundance
Within reach of the hands once they are able to hold.

With just a spark of intuition
He glimpsed a point not very far
That implied all the arduous
That without scruples could fit in

Someone who would have to break the living branches
To enable the thirsty path of his steps
For ever unjustified if all would depend on his acts
And that is only comprehensible for those who coexisted with hope.

The ongoing days, one by one
They were the tragic as the necessary
The hesitation and the merciless launching
Without the relief to be able to plead a temporary blindness

Without the forgiveness that can ask someone who ignores the precept
With the thick drama of breathing a temporary shortcoming
That can be overcome thanks to the mind busy in its own expansion
Like a wound endures believing that is in the midst of resistance.

Not like a punch after many months of training
Not like an arrow that hits the target after exhausting the wind for years
Not like air that access one who endured submerging
Not like the morning that is complied after a whole night of vigil

But with fierceness with which it is seen
The construction of a mountain grain by grain
Before the eyes of someone preaching by heart in the prairie
On whose body the weight of a separated rock will not fall
But the proper forgiveness in the summit of memory.

viernes, 10 de febrero de 2012

Only part of it

Only part of it


Slowly or rapidly
- She never cared about the time
Her temporary options had more weight
And she opened a way of rejection.

She was touched by the claims of others
And she defended herself with a complaint
She went for the normal
And she obtained her solitary space.

She sowed; she did it as a seed
The distance from who speaks
And of whom is named by her mouth.

Her difficult existence is admitted
That some approve and others not
But nobody classifies it as narrow
Because neither shadow nor light evidence to accompany it.

It’s pretended certain closeness
That is known as no more than curiosity
Such as the image of someone scrutinizing a secret
Not for knowing it but to tell it.

In following him the ankles become lighter
The fragile combination of flesh and bones
They are able to impose their voice on the soul
They fear the jump that could transform them into wings.

The hours of the clock
Or the shade of a tree
From the sparing to the limit
From the extremes of a complete explanation

On someone who lets dust to be
In an always immediate safety
For the public that was waiting in doubt
It ignores the direction which would have to embrace.

More years and years more
The grey cape covering the shoulders
Of someone who only sees water in the rain
And in water sees only hydrogen and oxygen
And in each molecule only part of what is gone.

miércoles, 8 de febrero de 2012

The dimness

The dimness

No, it isn’t enough to have served well
It isn’t sufficient to have embraced an illusion
There isn’t greatness in recognizing littleness
There isn’t bravery in facing the impossible everyday.

A question that replaces the other
A pain that supplants another
While infinite spaces of the day-to-day
Maintain a distance between a present joy and the next.

The history is nothing more than a shot
Where the last tract of the bullet
That knows who will be the victim, almost screaming
His horrible, childish and honest desire of a farewell party,

Starting or finishing again, or at least attempt it
From the origin and the end
Such as faults that you mumble
That is from the very sad part of the unsatisfied.

For the morning the rustiness between the eyes
In which a very humble human being
Will tell another something of his knowledge
As if the whole world had something to notice in it.

You are nothing
You are everything
To be or not to be
But saying it


Because with it the idiot tells
That another idiot depends from his acceptance
Because the scholar depends on it
That denies his dependency like all scholars do.

The hours are escaping
Stinking of imprisonment
For mentioning somebody pollutes them
And living isn’t enough for their redemption

In the thought of someone who perceived it was good
And who has had the possibility of sustaining it
Letting go for a reason that could always be explained
But that never was felt as true, as the astrologist
Who is able to predict that he couldn’t be able, silencing it.

lunes, 6 de febrero de 2012

Everybody knows

Everybody knows

Perhaps at the end of the day
Even the trophy isn’t what you expected
Or isn’t alive the person
To whom you pretend to offer it.

It exists the possibility that the symbols
All of them, have been wrong
That the wine isn’t more than wine
And the blood a simple game of matter.

It is possible that you use words
Expressing feelings that you don’t know
Repeating the acquired habit to repeat
That expresses who learned to walk before you.

To who would surprise the perspiration on your forehead
Being enough for the bread of entire families
Barely sufficient for you to survive another day
While on a lusty face; isn’t it reflected the handy work?

Perhaps it has been a great mistake
Or maybe it didn’t exist any
Perhaps thinking on it is correct
Or the final error that ends and feeds the others.

And amongst many few things
When you were gathering for that old age
That during many, many nights
It will be reading you the story of mankind.

Perhaps you have read or listened in passing
That everything is possible if you really want
But that you haven’t capture even the whole
Nor the truth or love, it is possible.

However, the board is always in the middle of the game
You live a before and an after the game
Where to win or lose means only an idea
That distracts the essential act of participating or not

In the great secrecy of actions and inactions
Managing those who skim the consciousness
Of these things that happen but could not occur
And those not happening in spite of the sea of intentions
Which don’t reach fulfillment and everybody knows why….

sábado, 4 de febrero de 2012

Gavrí Akhenazi - Alegoritmos

Ficha del libro:
-----------------------------
Título: Alegoritmos
Autor: Gavrí Akhenazi
Editorial: EDICIONES JUGLARÍA.
ISBN: 978-987-1166-46-6
Nro. Páginas: 94
------------------------------

Alegoritmos
por Silvio Manuel Rodríguez Carrillo

Uno entra a esta novela como entra un enemigo a territorio desconocido, con los sentidos en alerta y dispuesto a recibir el ataque. Desprovisto de adornos, el paisaje es hostil, casi inasible en lo descriptivo pero intensamente denso en las emociones que transmite, porque las secuencias las vive - mientras las dice en un lacónico diálogo - un protagonista oculto en sí mismo, protegido en una identidad que sin nombre propio va emanando todo cuanto le va sucediendo, pero como si no fuese parte de eso que le está pasando, como si la pasionalidad de los hechos sean competencia del lector.

La historia se da en algún lugar impreciso, pero real; y así es el planteo del relato, que transcurre en una geografía particular imposible de fijar, o, mejor dicho, innecesaria de precisar, pero que se entiende cierta desde el plano de la realidad en cada una de las situaciones. Las simbologías que parecieran ser tales, son más cercanas de lo habitual: cabezas, ojos y corazones cercenados, bombardeos y líneas demarcando límites, significan y simbolizan, parecen y realmente son; y es por esto que una “presencia” o un “ángel” devienen en protagonistas reales que sostienen los sucesos hasta el estremecimiento sin reparos.

Pero, más allá de la trama, hay algo que la apuntala la novela, y este algo es el enorme conocimiento que tiene el protagonista sobre sí mismo y sobre las circunstancias. Digo “sobre” y no “de”, para remarcar el factor experiencia que viene tácito en el relato, pero que no puede obviarse. Una experiencia vital que hace responda con aparente frialdad ante la atrocidad circunstancial, que hace lata prevenidamente todo el tiempo, como si no le cupiera ningún resto de asombro ante el desastre y, que sin embargo, hace que todavía guarde en lo íntimo, la emoción que genera la inocencia.

Con este autoconocimiento, comprende que vivir al límite es casi un no vivir, que en algún momento todo pudiera ser tanto que desearía desprenderse del propio cuerpo; mas, al no darse esto, y darse en cambio la persistencia de la vida, surgen las dos variables que cierran los cimientos del libro, la de la camaradería, y la del amor, pero, con un dramatismo fuera de norma. El círculo se hace tan breve y los sentimientos tan fuertes, que con el camarada vuelto “ángel” no precisa hablarse, ni dialogar con la “presencia”, porque el amor es una urgencia que vence al tiempo.

Recorrer las páginas de Alegoritmos es recorrer ciertos abismos que pareciera sólo el hombre puede generar, encrucijadas que sólo ciertos sujetos elegidos por la vida están llamados a transitar, pero también es vivenciar de manos expertas el poderío de la fe, la razón hecha carne en cuanto se vuelve convicción y deviene en manera de actuar. Novela noble, narrada visceral y poéticamente, Alegoritmos es una belleza literaria desde cualquiera de los ángulos que quiera y pueda mirarse, donde escritor y protagonista, fundidos y velados, se descubren en su sencilla grandeza, porque es cierto, “Todos los monstruos somos en el fondo románticos”.

Blog de Gavrí Akhenazi: http://lamaldadaparente.blogspot.com/
Gavrí Akhenazi en Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/user/pajaronegro09




viernes, 3 de febrero de 2012

Kathleen O'Neal - W. Michael Gear - La tribu de los lagos

Ficha del libro:
-----------------------------
Título: La tribu de los lagos
Autor: Kathleen O’Neal - W. Michael Gear
Editorial: EDICIONES B, S.A.
ISBN: 84-413-1547-7 (Volumen I)
ISBN 84-413-1548-5 (Volumen II)
Nro. Páginas: 735
------------------------------
La Tribu de los Lagos
por Silvio Manuel Rodríguez Carrillo

Es el solsticio de invierno, y en la Ciudad de los Muertos los Ancianos celebran los sagrados ritos de la Tribu. En las ceremonias, un joven iniciado llamado Araña Verde recibe una visión del Poder, en la que se le revela la urgencia de una tarea a realizar para mantener el equilibrio entre los clanes.

Esta magnífica novela, situada en el siglo I de nuestra era, recrea el estilo de vida de la civilización Woodland (conocidos también como hopewell), que se distinguieron de otras culturas por la intensa actividad comercial que llegaron a desarrollar, como así también por la gran calidad de sus artesanías. Las gigantescas construcciones ceremoniales que edificaron, impulsados por una fe religiosa en concordancia con una sana ambición de conocimientos, pueden quizá explicar su escasa belicosidad, como la falta de afán por conquistar territorios, rasgos estos que también les diferenciaron de sus coetáneos.

En este marco, los autores van dejando correr la trama, en la cual unos pocos protagonistas sobresalen del contexto en el que viven sus semejantes, participando de aquellas circunstancias en las que lo sobrenatural incide de manera directa sobre el devenir de sus pueblos.

Estos protagonistas, elegidos por el Poder, deberán dejar sus territorios originarios para avocarse a una empresa en la que desde el principio mismo estarán en juego sus vidas. Muchas lunas se necesitarán para completar esta peculiar carrera (por agua y por tierra), innumerables los peligros, y completamente incierto el resultado. A lo largo de esta travesía, todos los competidores serán probados al límite de su resistencia tanto física, como mental, pues para poder llegar a destino, no sólo deben sobreponerse a sus propias flaquezas, sino que además deberán actuar en solidaridad con personas de clanes diferentes, de costumbres y valores distintos, teniendo que en todo momento aprender a adaptarse a situaciones cambiantes y a lugares que no habían conocido salvo por vagas referencias.

“La tribu de los lagos” más allá de una simple aventura, es un relato que nos permite entrever aquellas fuerzas sobrehumanas que transitan más allá del bien y del mal, como también aquellos valores morales comunes a la raza humana en cualquier momento de la historia, que implican la capacidad de renuncia y esfuerzo en consecución de un ideal social, el afecto fraterno, y por supuesto, el amor filial.

Escrito con lenguaje sencillo y ameno, aún con sus mil aristas, este riquísimo libro se deja leer velozmente, brindándonos además de todo, una visión clara de las costumbres y usos de una civilización ya desaparecida pero que seguirá vigente, sin duda, en el corazón de los que la lean.

Line of defense

Line of defense

It is not taught to cross the fear
Not before you have been through it
As many times as have been necessary
Up to make your skin an impenetrable shell.

And what remains within generates other inside
Rendering the armor
That explains it without justification.

Dark screams in poorly illuminated streets
Lions that roar their lack of jungle
Among little men condemned to a salary
Born from little women that adore their destiny.

Capable but reluctant in attempting to insert their nails
In something more than a narrow or broad back
As if the final purpose of all the affections
Have to be limited by law to a unique pile of bones.

The land where pity is cultivated
That will be distributed with unfairness
So that the innocent pays for his innocence
And the guilty pretends to delay a time that doesn’t exist.

Opposing thoughts in a moment always crucial
That surprises everybody sooner or later
With the legs still strong and thirsty
Or the heart almost putrid with so much ignominy

For knowing her you have been part
In a open or hidden way
It was rejected the acceptance of the burden
For the simple fear of the most pure loneliness

One who submit to every human being
The supreme right of ambition
To become a simple and precise instrument
From which the ineffable slides her intention

Clothed in a great space of spiral,
For some passage of color or light
More rigid than the first impression
Able to put her claws
Where the imagination of who accepts her
Can focus on what will become her first point of support.

jueves, 2 de febrero de 2012

A little

A little

Now, when a little could be enough
That little is what is missing
Leaving the plot trembling
Because it has lost its end.

Behind the arrangement that was then pretended
Walls outside the pitiful screams
Of those who being able didn’t want to
And those wanting but were not able.

Although the sun is still shining
The afternoon already becomes serious
Such as the face of the novice
When understanding that he is no more.

The moles continue secure in their tunnels
The earth doesn’t take the risk to stop spinning on itself
And although to know is painful sometimes
The searchers don’t cease in their task.

In the sadness in an abandoned camp
In the tiny immensity of everything that was
A piece of emptiness is also inserted
That is generated by the departure of a companion.

The compass that waits to be used
The time that continues weaving its silent future
And the other side of perceptions
Someone remains seized upon his locked door.

It wasn’t enough to observe for the other
Someone couldn’t with the excess
Together they poured out on a forgotten river
The cup of then full of an absurd love

That could laugh for lack of desires
And that becoming necessary gained its weight
That could only be managed with force and skills
And not with torrid surrenders already empty of innocence.

In the destiny of the worms
In the cold hatred that the spikes feel in themselves
And in the perspiration from the armpits of the midwife
In the infinite stupidity of one who didn’t learn to care.

Part of the moon is split
The capture of a spark is lost
And someone let that what remains
It wouldn’t be more than to continue so
With the hands almost full of what nobody wants.